


The Unbearable Burden of Caring

by Tessa Crowley (tessacrowley)



Series: Picking Up Pieces [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Depression, HP: EWE, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Post-Deathly Hallows, Social Anxiety
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-09
Updated: 2017-08-16
Packaged: 2018-12-13 01:57:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 22,189
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11749716
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tessacrowley/pseuds/Tessa%20Crowley
Summary: Fifteen years after the War, Draco is a social recluse and award winning author. Harry is an auror who works too hard, ensuring his old war wounds never heal. They meet at a masque ball, unaware of each other's identities. In another situation, it would have been love at first sight. But for them, it would never be so simple.





	1. Unlikely, Unknown

**Author's Note:**

> This is a repost of a story that was deleted, so if it seems familiar, that's why.

“Oh,” Hermione said next to him. “Oh, Harry, isn’t it beautiful?”

It was. And after spending so long in such dark places, Harry had developed a deep and abiding love of beauty wherever he could find it.

“I thought we weren’t supposed to use each other’s names.”

He looked sideways at her and smiled. She was beautiful, too, all done up in white feathers and silks – she’d decided to go as a swan, because she already had a white dress to alter for the occasion. He couldn’t make out any distinguishing features behind her mask, of course, but he could still see her returning smile.

“You’re right,” she said. “At least, not until midnight.”

That, apparently, was when the masks came off. Harry’d never been to a ball in his life (unless he was going to count the Yule Ball when he was fourteen, and given that it had been a school function, Harry decided that it didn’t), let alone a masque ball, so he had to trust Hermione’s knowledge.

He did like the idea of it, he supposed. The mystery, the romance. The fact that no one would recognize him and start clawing at him for photographs and signatures.

“I want some wine,” Hermione decided, and she set off into the crowd.

The streamers, the candles, the costumes, the moonlight through the tall windows – beautiful. Harry drank it all in, let it calm him, let it remind him that life was not all death and loss. If there was any good use of his celebrity status, it would be the right to attend events like this.

He set off through the crowd as the thrumming murmur of conversation was drowned out by music. The orchestra had begun to play.

 

* * *

 

It was a good midway point, Draco decided. His agent was right; he couldn’t keep locking himself away like he’d been doing, and this was a safe compromise. People, pageantry, socialization, and most importantly, blessed, sacred, holy anonymity.

Until midnight, anyway. But Draco doubted he would be staying that long. He was willing to open himself up, but not that much.

He drank, but not to excess. He ate, but lightly. He spoke, but briefly. The outside world was a skill, one that he had to relearn, but it came back to him easily enough.

It was a party that, at times, felt a little too familiar. All the richness and finery made him think back, hearkened to home, to the time before the War. It ached. At times, it chilled him down to his bones – but it was fine.

It was all fine, he reminded himself.

He had a mask, after all. What better time to relax?

 

* * *

 

Harry loved the colors. Bright red foxes, golden lions, poison green dragons, peacocks with feathers as blue as sky, all of them glinting with jewelry, twirling, dancing, laughing. It was so colorful that he felt a sudden pang of regret as deciding to dress as—

“A raven?”

When he turned around, he was face-to-face with a prince. He was tall, though a few inches shorter than Harry, with a long black frock coat hemmed in gold, a white shirt and cravat, and handsome black boots. Elegant but unpretentious.

At once, Harry fell in love.

“Interesting choice,” the prince said. “Daring, too. A speck of black in a sea of color. A dramatic way to stand out.”

Oh, yes, Harry thought, very much in love.

His black-and-gold mask covered most of his face, but Harry could still see him smiling.

“It wasn’t intentional,” Harry said. “My nicest robe is black. I thought it might be an easy alteration.”

The prince moved forward, inspecting the feathers sewn into Harry’s sleeves. Now that he was closer, Harry could smell him – tea and cigarettes. Despite himself, he inhaled deeply.

“Ravens are terribly misunderstood birds,” the prince remarked. “Poe eternally smeared their reputation when he wrote his poem. They’re actually very playful.”

“They are?”

“Oh, yes. They chase each other, slide down snowbanks – they even make toys for themselves.”

Harry smiled. “Are you an ornithologist?”

The prince laughed. “No,” he said, “I just do quite a lot of reading.”

He reached past Harry and picked up a flute of champagne from the nearby table. Tea and cigarettes flooded his senses again.

“Your voice sounds familiar,” Harry said. “Have we met?”

“That’s a rather strange question, don’t you think?”

Harry opened his mouth, shut it without speaking, and then said, “Sorry?”

“We’re at a masque ball,” the prince said. “The entire point of the evening is mystery and anonymity. I’m merely remarking on the paradox of one masked man asking another masked man if they’ve ever met.”

For a moment Harry considered the possibility that his playful decision that he’d fallen in love hadn’t actually been that far off the mark. He’d never met anyone so eloquent in his life; the man spoke like it was poetry, like he’d stepped out of the splendor and pageantry of the Regency Era, and despite himself, Harry could not get enough of it.

He took another moment to study his prince. The mask couldn’t hide everything, after all: Harry could tell that he was slender, that he was very clean, that his hair was the color of cornsilk, and that the lines of his neck rolled exquisitely when he drank champagne. He was beautiful, and Harry’s soft spot for beauty had never been softer.

“Do you dance?” Harry asked.

The prince swallowed his mouthful of champagne. “Are you asking?”

“I’m insisting.”

 

* * *

 

He’d been doing so well, flitting from person to person, engaging in meaningless pleasantries. It had been a series of gentle stretches, a warm-up for his disused social skills.

And then he’d talked to the raven, and he’d smelled like holly, and before he knew what was happening, they were dancing, and all Draco could think about was how very strong his arms were around him, drowning out the parts of his mind that were reminding him he wasn’t supposed to do this much this soon.

“If I can’t know your name,” the raven said, “then you can at least tell me what it is you do for a living.”

“I’m a writer,” Draco said. “A novelist.”

“That explains your way with words.”

“In the past, people have found my vocabulary pretentious.”

“They must have been quite jealous. Have you written anything I might have read?”

“God, I hope not.”

The raven laughed, and it might have been Draco’s imagination, but he thought he felt the arm around his waist tighten.

“What? Are they bad?”

“It’s possible, though I’ve been told they’re good. It’s not the quality that concerns me, it’s how damned personal they are.”

“Oh?”

“Writing _Tragedy of the Narcissist_ was like ripping out my own heart with a dulled butter knife; publishing it was like putting the organ on display for all the word to scrutinize.”

The raven was smiling. Draco only had less than half his face to study, but the expression seemed to be one of delight.

“I’ve never met anyone who talks like you do,” the raven said. “It’s incredible to listen to.”

That surprised Draco, though perhaps it shouldn’t have. After all, he’d spent eight years locked up in his flat, writing and reading and drinking to excess and speaking to no one. Maybe in those long years of self-imposed exile, his speech patterns had changed. It had changed nearly everything else about him.

Perhaps it wasn’t so much the raven’s admission as it was the fact that the raven had admitted it at all. It seemed like such a strangely vulnerable thing to say – his tone hadn’t been flattering or obsequious, but rather sort of joyful and open.

Draco realized that he hadn’t answered for several long, drawn-out seconds and said, “You’re very forthright.”

The raven shrugged. “I don’t like hiding myself or my thoughts. Better to be resented for who you are than loved for who you’re not.”

“I suppose the fear of scorn must be lessened when you’re wearing a mask,” Draco said.

The raven leaned forward. Draco smelled holly and felt warm breath on his jaw. “I have a feeling that I’d still be complimenting you even if neither of us were wearing masks,” he said.

Draco shuddered and fell in love, despite the fact that he knew that couldn’t possibly be true. If his mask was off, if he only knew—

His forearm burned, shaming him. _Remember who you are,_ it reminded him. _Remember what you did._

 

* * *

 

The song ended and everyone applauded, but Harry was perhaps a little overeager to be free of the closeness and claustrophobia of the dance floor. He took the prince by the hand and guided him away, through open French doors that let out onto a garden, lit by strings of fairy lights.

“You’re very quiet all of a sudden,” Harry said once the rumble of the ballroom had quieted to a pleasant, distant thrum.

“Apologies,” the prince said. “I assure you that it’s very out-of-character for me. If it eases your mind, you may consider me so taken by your charm that you’ve rendered me dumbstruck.”

“Merlin, I hope that’s not the case. I’ve already decided that I love to hear you talk.”

The moon came out from behind a veil of clouds, illuminating the garden with an ethereal silver light. When they came to a stop, they were standing beside a fountain, far enough away from the ballroom that all they could hear was the water and the crickets.

“You have such a breathtaking openness,” the prince said.

“Do I?”

“I’ve always been an ardent admirer of authenticity. I spent so many years locked away from the world, hiding from everything including—” He hesitated a moment. “—including myself.”

Harry wasn’t sure what to say, so he didn’t say anything.

“I suppose it’s just – the word is ‘refreshing’, I think. It’s refreshing, seeing such genuineness. Like opening a window into a stuffy room and breathing in the wind.”

“Merlin,” Harry said again, laughing. How could someone that talks like that even exist outside of books? “I have no problem being as open as you like if it will keep you interested.”

“You should have little fear of losing my interest,” the prince said, and at some point he’d gotten so close that he had to lift his chin to meet Harry’s eyes and Harry couldn’t stop staring at the tendons as they arced and rolled beneath the skin. “Are you an auror?”

Harry forced his eyes to refocus, tearing them away from the neck that filled his head with thoughts of swans and gossamer. “How did you know?”

“There aren’t very many sorts of people who are invited to functions like these,” the prince said. “You don’t have the air of an old money socialite or the sliminess of a politician. With those eliminations there are few enough choices.”

“Good deduction,” Harry said, smiling.

“An auror,” the prince said ruminatively. “A vanquisher of evil.”

He could detect a subtle tensing in the prince’s frame.

“You seem nervous,” Harry said, and he reached out to put a hand on the crux of the prince’s neck. The prince took in a sharp, shuddering breath and arced almost reflexively against his touch, like an animal starved for affection. The sight of it filled Harry with an overwhelming desire to touch him absolutely everywhere if only to see that reaction again and again.

“I’m not nervous,” the prince said.

“These things aren’t supposed to happen,” Harry informed him. “People aren’t supposed to just meet like this and be so… so—”

“—drawn,” the prince supplied.

“Drawn,” Harry repeated. “Will you stay till midnight?”

 

* * *

 

Every now and then Draco’s mind would take one piece of information and run with it, faster than the rest of his body could keep up.

 _Midnight_ , the raven said, and his mind took over the rest. _Midnight, masks off, identities. Evil past, evil memories, vanquisher of evil, it’s a disaster, it was always going to be a disaster, out, get out, get out now._

For a moment all Draco could do was stand paralyzed. A look of concern seemed to ghost across the raven’s face, twisting his mouth into a worried frown.

“Are you all right?”

“I can’t,” Draco said. “I can’t stay till midnight.”

“What? Why not?”

Draco didn’t have a good answer. All the anxieties he’d worked to hard to shake off for this one evening were creeping back at the edges of his mind, clawing at him like so many shadows. He pulled away and turned, moving back towards the ballroom. _Get out get out get out get out._

“Wait—!”

Merlin, had there always been so many people? Draco felt suffocated, terrified; he’d been an idiot to think he was ready for so much so soon. The part of him that was fit to talk to other people had _died in the War with the rest of him_.

“Please! Wait!”

The words were distant, inconsequential. The floor undulated beneath his feet, and Draco stumbled for the hall leading out, leading anywhere, he had to get out.

 

* * *

 

Someone dressed as a prince ran down the hallway and out the door. Before she had a chance to decide whether or not she should follow, someone else burst out from the ballroom after him.

“Wait!”

She couldn’t pin who it was, but this was a very posh party and it couldn’t be a bad answer, not for her at any rate.

“I just…”

Outside, there was the familiar crack of Disapparation and the man done up in black feathers pulled off his mask and raked his hands through his hair.

 _Harry Potter._ The perpetual bachelor since the end of the War, the lonely hero, the dark and dangerous auror, lovestruck and lost right in front of her. _Oh, yes._

“I only…”

He didn’t look at her, of course. No one ever noticed the fly – or as the case may be, the beetle – on the wall. And at once her mind began filling with possibilities of prose. _Harry Potter, 32, was seen at a governor’s ball this past Saturday, chasing after an unknown partygoer…_

No, no. Not enough information, not enough story. Not yet.

As he sank down on a bench against the wall, Rita crawled carefully down towards him and latched on under his collar.


	2. Tragedy of the Narcissist

Draco was frantic and could not stop wheezing. He fumbled for his wand to unlock the front door of his flat, and it took too long, far too long. He made it inside, ripped off the mask, and slammed the door behind him, sure that he was about to lose consciousness.

“Master Draco?”

His back hit the wall and he sank down, legs refusing to support him. He gripped his hair and his heart slammed in his throat and his chest was tight and he couldn’t _think_ , he couldn’t even _see_ , everything was so _wrong_ —

“Master Draco!”

Dolly was, by now, familiar with these fits, and when she rushed to his side, the first thing she did was grab his face with both small hands and force him to look at her in her big, blue, saucer-sized eyes.

“Was it too much for Master Draco?” she asked, and Draco knew he had to at least try to answer or she would call a mediwizard.

“Too much,” he rasped at her.

She frowned, like she wasn’t quite sure if his state was bad enough to warrant a trip to St. Mungo’s or not. After a moment, she dropped her hands from his face and patted his arm.

“Straight to bed, Master Draco, straight to bed.”

At once, he was enveloped in the house-elf’s magic and lifted from the ground. She carried him through the sitting room with its piles of books, past the shut and ever-locked office, and into the bedroom under his waiting blankets.

“Master Draco should not have pushed himself,” Dolly chided, but there was no anger in her voice, just sadness. “Master Draco will sleep, and have a nice, big breakfast in the morning, then set back to work. Dolly will make sure he is fine.”

“I’ll be fine,” Draco willed himself to say, to believe, as Dolly tucked him in. “It’ll all be fine.”

 

* * *

 

“Harry? What are you doing out here on your lonesome?”

It was Hermione, of course, a few shades pinker and a few drinks down. She was buzzed, Harry could tell, from dancing and expensive champagne, but Hermione was nothing if not prudent. She still had her sense and bearings when she crossed the floor and came over to his bench.

“I was looking for you,” she said, and then she seemed to notice his expression. “What’s wrong?”

What a stupefying question it was. What could Harry possibly tell her that would make sense, even to himself? What combination of words would get across the strange wonderfulness and curious gravity of the evening without making Harry look as ridiculous and dumbfounded as he felt?

“Harry?”

“Have you ever heard of _Tragedy of the Narcissist_?”

Hermione seemed confused. “The book?”

“Yes. Do you have a copy?”

“I – yes. I read it last year. Why—?”

“Can I borrow it?”

“Harry!”

“Something weird has happened,” Harry said, because it was true, and because he couldn’t think of any other way to say it. “It’s hard to explain. I just really need to get my hands on a copy.”

“I’m not going to leave just because—”

“No, no, wouldn’t dream of it,” he interjected. “Please, stay. Your wards will still let me in, right?”

“Of course they will, but Harry—”

“I’ll explain everything later, I promise.” He put a reassuring hand on her shoulder. “Have fun.”

He did feel a little bit guilty, he supposed, leaving Hermione as confused and alarmed as she was. She’d forgive him later. She always did.

Once he was outside, he Disapparated, and when the nether had stopped twisting he was in the foyer of her London flat. Ron was out still – away on a business trip, which had prompted the outing in the first place – and the whole place was quiet and dark. He pushed his way through the shadows, around the familiar patterns of furniture, and into Hermione’s study, where he finally cast a quick spell to light a nearby candelabrum.

Finding a book in Hermione’s study was like finding a needle in a pile of needles. If you weren’t picky, it was a goldmine, but if you were looking for something specific, it was a nightmare. Hermione had tried to explain to him once how she’d organized her collection – it had been a very long explanation and one that Harry had entirely blocked out of his memory – but when he looked at it now, he had to admit that it had the benefit of being logical.

Four bookshelves; one fiction, three non-fiction. Unfortunately they seemed to be sorted by author rather than title, and Harry had to spend several moments looking carefully before—

 _Tragedy of the Narcissist_. The golden embossed words shone low in the candlelight, and Harry snatched it from the shelf. It was a handsome book, bound in dark brown leather. He opened it to its first page.

“ _Tragedy of the Narcissist,_ ” Harry read, “by J. William Cross.”

J. William Cross – the name was familiar. Harry’d never been much for reading, but even he’d heard his praises sung in _The Quibbler_ and _The Daily Prophet_. He had recently come out with another book that had garnered a lot of praise and an award, though he couldn’t remember which award, or, for that matter, what the book was called.

He thumbed through the first few pages, looking for information for a publisher, an agent, anything that he could use to get information about the author, a way to contact him, anything at all – but before he realized he’d gone too far, he was on chapter one.

_Caroline could pinpoint with fearsome accuracy the precise moment at which the last shreds and tatters of her life dissolved completely. Vienna – the station, the moonlight, the churning of the engines, the shouting of the aurors behind her. She could have gotten away._

Harry sat down on one of the armchairs next to Hermione’s desk.

_But then, no. She couldn’t have. Choice was a luxury reserved for those who did well by it, not for her. And in the corner of her cell, as she watched the sunlight slip across the floor, she remembered her family and hated herself for it, for everything._

And then, quite contrary to what he’d originally set out to do, Harry began to read.

 

* * *

 

Hermione steadfastly refused to let Harry ruin her night out. It had been ages since she’d really danced and met people, especially since Rose was born. To really get the most out of her evening, or perhaps to spite Harry and her own curiosity, she stayed till midnight and a bit later.

By the time she Apparated back into her flat, she was quite surprised to see the light on in her study.

“Harry?”

She gave her wrist a flick, letting her wand fall out of her dress sleeve and into her palm so she could cast a wordless spell to light up the flat. When she came to the door of the study, she found Harry – or the back of him, sitting in her armchair, bent over a book.

“Harry,” she said, “it’s past midnight.”

He looked back at her. His eyes were red.

She opened her mouth to ask what was wrong, but she knew what it was before the question left her mouth.

“Where are you?”

“Caroline just got to Vienna,” he said, voice thick. He cleared his throat, as if trying to mask the fact that he was tearing up.

Hermione remembered that part well. “So you’re nearly done.”

“Yeah.” He scrubbed a palm across his jaw and rose. “Sorry. Merlin, I didn’t even realize the time…”

“Harry, what’s this about? What happened at the party?”

Harry closed the book around his finger to save his place and pushed himself up.

“I think I – I think I met J. William Cross.”

Hermione’s initial reaction was one of surprise, though when she realized how much it explained, the surprise petered out again.

“He was – incredible. Really incredible,” Harry said. “Brilliant and lovely and – this sounds daft, but I think we…”

Hermione lowered her head. She had been one of three people Harry had told about his sexuality, and the only one who really took it well. It helped, she supposed, that she was Muggle Born, that she’d been reared in a society roughly 50 years ahead of wizards, socially speaking.

“You think you and he…?”

“He left sort of abruptly. I just – I wanted to see if there was any contact information, and I ended up just reading.”

“He’s a shut-in, you know.”

Harry looked up, frowning. “What?”

“J. William Cross,” she said. “He’s a shut-in. A total recluse. He almost never makes public appearances. I don’t think anyone actually knows what he looks like.”

She closed the gap between them and plucked the book from his hand. Minding to keep his spot, she flipped open the book and scanned the preface pages.

“Weston & Co.,” she read. “That’s the name of his agency. If you really want to talk to him, they’re your best bet.”

She handed him back the book, and he took it carefully with both hands, staring at the cover for a while in silence.

“I think it’s actually terribly romantic,” she said, doing her best to lighten the mood. “But then, I’ve had three glasses of Chardonnay, so it might actually be ridiculous.”

Harry laughed, and Hermione smiled as the tension defused.

“It’s probably ridiculous,” Harry admitted.

“You have a track record of ridiculous and it’s worked out pretty well,” she reminded him.

 

* * *

 

Draco awoke to the scent of a ham and cheese omelette and sunlight on his face.

At some point, he realized, Dolly must have changed him into his pajamas, because when he climbed out of bed and looked at himself int he mirror, he most certainly was not wearing his masque attire.

The masque. Memories battered down the walls of his cozy, sleep-slowed mind and made his stomach flip.

What had he been thinking, listening to his agent’s advice on what to do about his mental state? Eric was a good agent, but he was not a therapist, and Draco was an idiot for thinking otherwise.

But then, it hadn’t been all bad, had it? It hadn’t ended very well, but there were points—

Draco shut his eyes and was taken back – the raven, smelling like holly, his hands on his neck, and the fire that raged through his nerves. The curve of his lips as he’d leaned in to whisper in his ear. The satin of his voice—

His forearm burned again, accusatively. He grabbed it through the sleeve of his pajama top and set his face.

 _No,_ he decided. _It was for the better._

“Master Draco?”

He turned and looked down to see Dolly poking her large, round head through the door.

“Your breakfast is ready,” she said.

Draco managed a smile. “You’re too good to me, Dolly.”

He threw on a dressing gown, but left it open. The scent of ham and cheese omelette only got stronger as he left the bedroom and made his way to the kitchen, gleaming and tidy. She always did such a good job of keeping the place neat, even when Draco did an equally good job of dirtying it up again.

She was pouring him a mug of tea just as he sat down, and Draco realized that he wanted tea so badly he was willing to strangle someone. He added a bit of milk and took a large swallow.

“Master Draco should owl Mr. Weston and tell him how badly it went,” Dolly said, and there was a vindictive edge to her squeaky voice that made Draco grin. “Mr. Weston should not be pushing Master Draco into things he can’t handle.”

“It’s fine, Dolly,” he said, “it’s over now.”

“Dolly was so scared when Dolly saw Master Draco last night. To think Master Draco had to go through all that just because Mr. Weston urged it!”

“No one was holding a wand to my head,” he reminded her.

Dolly fumed and grumbled and filled a glass with orange juice. Draco took a grateful bite of the omelette.

“If Dolly sees Mr. Weston again, Dolly may have half a mind…”

“If it were up to you, Dolly, I’d never see the outside of the flat, let alone a party.”

Dolly looked wounded. “Dolly wants the best for Master Draco!” she squeaked. “She just thinks that he must take smaller steps.”

“I’m not sure how much smaller I could go from talking to people who don’t know who I am.”

“Master Draco should spend the day writing,” Dolly said as she charmed the dishes to start washing themselves in the sink. “That always makes Master Draco feel better.”

Draco wanted to correct her, to say that it really only made him feel better in the way severing a gangrenous foot might, but he decided not to say anything.

 

* * *

 

Harry finished _Tragedy of the Narcissist_ , spent an hour in the shower pretending it hadn’t affected him as deeply as it had, slept for four hours, and went to work.

Harry liked work. Or, at least, he very much _needed_ work; he needed the distraction, the adrenaline, the occupation of his time. He put in his usual ten hours, tracking down a pack of dark wizards on near the Scottish border, and planning the logistics of the strike that would bring them out into the open.

Then he Apparated into London, outside a rather unremarkable gray building with a weathered brass sign reading  “WESTON & CO.” above the door.

By then, it was quite late, and before Harry could even reach the door, a young man with thin rectangular spectacles came backing out of the front door with an enormous pile of parchments in his arms.

Harry had a sneaking suspicion that he was a literary agent. He’d never met one before, but if he had to picture what a literary agent looked like, he’d picture someone an awful lot like him.

“Mister – ah, Weston?”

He stopped and looked over at Harry. Then he did a violent double-take, nearly dropping his parchments.

Harry was used to that sort of reaction by now. “Sorry, are you shut?”

“Are – _Harry Potter?_ ”

“Yes, that’s me,” he said. “Can I talk to you for a moment?”

“I – yes. _Yes_. Just in here—!”

He pushed open the door again and walked back in. The lobby was small and quiet, with a few desks and a large aquarium. It was nice, Harry thought.

“Can I just say, Mr. Potter,” Mr. Weston said, “that if you’ve finally decided to write a memoir, you could not have chosen a better—”

“That’s definitely not why I’m here,” he said, and as Mr. Weston set the papers down, he could detect a sort of crestfallen look. “It’s about a client of yours. J. William Cross. Could I – would you mind terribly giving him this?”

Harry produced the letter he’d written out of his robe. He'd folded it into thirds, sealed it with wax, and drawn a small black raven on the front – just in case.

Mr. Weston adjusted his glasses and took the letter, carefully turning it over in his hands.

“May I ask what this is about?”

He had, of course, been anticipating the question. “We met at a party, but he left quite abruptly. I read _Tragedy of the Narcissist_ and I just wanted him to know…” He hesitated a moment. “It really affected me.”

Mr. Weston nodded slowly, owlishly. “His work does tend to be quite affecting,” he said.

“So you’ll give it to him?”

“I – I’ll try, Mr. Potter, but Mr. Cross is very…”

“I know.”

“He’s very _shy_ , you understand; he doesn’t usually read any kind of fan mail; I just don’t want you to be disappointed if he doesn’t—”

“I understand,” Harry said. “All I ask is that you make sure he gets the letter.”

After a moment, Mr. Weston nodded again. “I was going to go speak to him tomorrow, anyway; I suppose I could drop it off.”

“Thank you.” Harry smiled gratefully. “Have a good evening, Mr. Weston.”

There were plenty more things he would have liked to say to Harry, he was sure – more about a memoir, no doubt – but he didn’t give him the chance. He left through the door and Disapparated with a crack.


	3. Letters from Ravens and Princes

At four o’clock precisely, Eric Weston knocked on the front door, nothing if not punctual.

Draco decided that finishing the sentence took precedence over answering the door, so he refilled his quill and let Dolly see to Eric. Through the walls he heard sounds of greeting: door opening, mumbled hellos, rustling of removed cloaks, questions about tea. He finished the sentence and set the page aside.

Dolly was under very strict orders not to disturb him while he was in his office at his writing desk, and he couldn’t expect her to summon him, even for the arrival of his agent. He pushed his chair back and plucked a cigarette from the tin by the window. As he left his office, he used the tip of his wand to light it and took a long drag.

“Draco!” Eric said, his voice the loudest thing in the quiet little flat. “How are you?”

“Could be worse, all things considered,” he answered, slipping his wand back into his sleeve. “Yourself?”

“Just fine, just fine. Is this it?”

He was referring to the stack of parchment on the coffee table.

“Yes,” Draco said, sinking into the armchair. Eric took a seat at the couch nearest the pile and pulled it into his lap.

“How do you feel about it?” he asked, starting to leaf through it.

“The worst is over, certainly,” Draco answered, folding one leg over the other. He took another pull from his cigarette, and when he continued, smoke snaked through his teeth: “I resolved the plot hole, I think, and added in the chapter focusing on Margaret.”

“Good,” Eric said, “excellent.” He kept leafing through the pile, stopping whenever he saw notes in the margins. “I’ll have to give it a more thorough read, but I think this is the revision we’ve been looking for.”

“Still going with Tarquin House?” Draco asked. “It’s a bit dark for them.”

“We’ll see.” Eric looked up at him. He had a strange expression.

“What?” Draco asked.

“Nothing.” He shook his head. “How’d you resolve the plot hole with the captain?”

They spoke for a while about the revision. Dolly brought them tea. Eventually, the topic of conversation turned more personal – or at least, it did for Eric. In the five years Draco had known Eric, he’d never had much to talk about in terms of his own personal life. But Eric was always more than willing to pretend that it wasn’t strange and speak at length about his wife and darling baby girl. Draco liked hearing about his family. It made him feel normal.

Draco had finished his tea and his cigarette and was halfway to the door when Eric suddenly changed the subject.

“Look, I’m meant to give you a letter,” he said.

“A letter?” Draco usually had a functionary at the agency give form responses to all his fan mail. He wasn’t sure what made this one different.

“He came to me personally and asked me to deliver it.”

“Who’s he?” Draco asked, frowning.

Eric reached into his robe and pulled the letter out. Draco studied the wax seal for a moment in silence before he saw the—

“Raven…” There it was, drawn on the front in black ink. It was impossible. Wasn’t it? His heart thundered in the side of his neck.

“I think you know who it’s from,” Eric said. His voice was knowing, but not smug. “He said you left the party early.”

“I—” he began, haltingly, eyes still focused on the letter, “I had an episode.”

“Shit,” Eric said. “I’m sorry, Draco. It wasn’t too bad, was it?”

He broke the seal on the letter and opened it. It was quite lengthy.

“No,” he answered vaguely. “Not too bad.”

“I really am sorry,” Eric repeated. “I shouldn’t have suggested it.”

“It’s fine. Thanks for the letter.”

“Look, Draco,” He said as Draco turned away and headed back to his office, “if it really does get bad, just let Dolly get you help.”

“Goodbye, Eric.”

He closed his office door behind him. Outside, he heard a sigh, a rustle of cloak, a crack of Disapparation.

 

* * *

 

_I’m not sure how to address this letter. Prince? Mr. Cross? Or, since that seems to be a pseudonym, should it be some other name entirely?_

_When you first left, I didn’t quite understand why it had been so sudden, but a friend of mine informed me that you’re a bit of a recluse, and I read up a bit on you and a lot of people think you might have some kind of anxiety disorder. I’m sorry about that. I feel like I should have known._

_I want you to know that I read_ Tragedy of the Narcissist _, and at the risk of sounding overly sentimental, it had me in tears. I’m not a big reader in general, and I’m certainly not the kind of person who cries over books, but when Caroline got to the train station all I could think about was how she deserved so much better. She wasn’t a bad person, she was just in a bad circumstance, and the fact that she let herself be captured broke my heart._

_I’m sorry, I’m rambling._

_You enchanted me at the masque, though I’m sure that was plain on my face. I do not want to pressure you into anything, but I do want you to know that I haven’t really stopped thinking about you since you left, and I would jump at the chance to see you again. I hope you feel the same. There’s no reason we can’t do this right, slowly. Slowly as you like._

_Do you like coffee?_

_Yours,_  
 _The raven_

 

* * *

 

Draco stared at the letter in silence. He read it, reread it. He saw the letters, recognized the words, but within the context of a meaningful sentence it felt like a different language.

He’d spent the last two days convincing himself to forget the raven, the way his arms held him and the way he was chased by the scent of holly. Given more time, it would have worked.

But he wanted to see Draco again. And some terrible, wrenching part of Draco wanted to see him again, as well.

He could already hear Dolly’s disparaging remarks. Small steps, she would say. Don’t push yourself.

But Draco hadn’t pushed himself most of that evening, especially not around the raven. Talking with him had been easier – more fluid, more natural – than with anyone else. In the past, a touch on the shoulder had been enough to send Draco into an episode, but the raven had taken him into his arms and _danced_ with him and Draco’s thoughts were dominated almost entirely by—

He took a calming sip of tea but spat it back out because it had been sitting there for an hour and was stone cold.

There were two options: respond or do not respond. Both of them seemed impossible.

 

* * *

 

_My dear raven, how optimistic you are._

_Caroline was guilty of the crime of inaction, which, while less malevolent, is no less evil than anything those around her had done. The foundations of our justice system would crumble if one was to consider her innocent in the eyes of the law. Is not the bedrock of our morality based on goodness being more than just not doing wrong, but striving for what is right? Did not she always have the option to get out, to do something, to do anything at all?_

_I think you’d find it a tedious metaphor if you knew more about me._

_I love coffee, and I would be a tremendous liar indeed if I said the thought of seeing you again didn’t light fires in my nerves. But I can’t, dear raven, and it would be foolish to even entertain the idea that I could, mask or no. Even after all these years, the shackles of my past still bind me. I am, as I have ever been, a wreck of a man, raven, and entirely unworthy of you._

_The masque was a beautiful, wonderful mistake. I hope you take some comfort in the knowing that you had me spellbound and, for a few moments, forgetting past sins. In another life, we’d be drinking coffee and falling in love._

_I remain devotedly yours,_  
 _The prince_

 

* * *

 

Poetry like this was not supposed to cut like knives.

He should have responded hours ago. He should have at least been home to receive the owl. But he’d been working, so caught up and lost; who knows how long the letter had been sitting on his desk—

Harry grabbed a quill, an ink well, and a roll of parchment.

It couldn’t just end like that. He wouldn’t let it.

 

* * *

 

_Everyone has past sins, me as much as you. I don’t know what it is you may have done that’s damaged you like it has, but please understand that you aren’t that person anymore. The man I met at the masque was brilliant, vulnerable, gracious, and dynamic, and I haven’t been able to get him out of my mind since that night. He’s the one I want to have coffee with, not the person he used to be however many years ago._

_I’m not asking you to magically become okay. I understand, better than most, that sometimes the worst wounds are ones that mediwizards can’t heal, and that anxieties are real and need time and patience. All I’m saying is that is maybe you should give yourself the chance to start to be okay. The person I met at the masque is well worth whatever wait he might require._

_Turn me down because you want to turn me down, not because you’re scared of your own happiness._

_With that in mind, if I asked you to meet me at the Leaky Cauldron this Saturday at seven, would you be there?_

 

* * *

 

Draco was aware, in the periphery of his senses, that Dolly had asked him a question, but he couldn’t answer. His heart was beating fast, but he found that it wasn’t an unpleasant feeling, as it was during his episodes. It was a sort of hopeful flutter, warm and churning.

Merlin, the man’s honesty was as staggering as it had always been. The raven could have opened up a vein and bled onto the page and it would have been no less authentically _him_. Draco was opening up the window and breathing in the wind all over again.

He read the whole letter over three times, but there were sentences that kept drawing his attention again and again – _you aren’t that person anymore_ – _give yourself the chance to start to be okay_ – _well worth whatever wait he might require_. These were thoughts that had never crossed Draco’s mind in the years since the War. They felt so strange and novel, though the sentiments they expressed were not new ideas.

How on earth had this happened?

“Master Draco?”

His eyes shifted, refocused. Dolly was staring up at him, her tapered ears twitching nervously.

“It’s not important, is it?” she asked. “It arrived in the middle of the night. Dolly didn’t want to wake Master Draco, he was sleeping, and he sleeps so little these days—”

“It’s fine, Dolly,” he assured her, looking back at the letter. “What day is it?”

The question seemed to confuse her. “Thursday the twelfth, Master Draco.”

That meant that he had two days. In his darker years, going anywhere was an exhausting effort that took days of working up the nerve, even if he only wanted to go somewhere as simple as the shop down the street. The idea of getting ready to go somewhere like the Leaky Cauldron in two days – without the security of a mask, no less – seemed impossibly daunting. It was ridiculous, absurd. He could never go somewhere so public, not with a face that so many people would recognize, not with the mark on his arm. _And yet,_ Draco’s mind whispered treacherously, _and yet._

“I need a cigarette,” Draco said, and Dolly rushed off to fetch one.

 

* * *

 

_My raven, dear raven, what have you done to me?_

_A year ago, going to the Leaky Cauldron would have been unthinkable. It wasn’t so long ago that I feared anything beyond my front door. I feared scorn, feared shame, feared the judging eyes of strangers. I still do. I am terrified._

_But you ask me to dinner and quietly, in the midst of all the screaming fear, a small voice tells me to go, because I want to see you, and because you want to see me, and because wouldn’t it be wonderful?_

_Dear raven, gentle raven, you will be the death of me – or, perhaps, the rebirth._

_Please do not think unkindly of me if I lose my nerve. I’ve never been a paragon of strength, and it would not be the first time I’d let someone down. Know that even if my courage fails me, that it will not be for lack of desire to see you again. Despite everything, I find myself wanting little else._

_Merlin willing, you will find me there on Saturday. Look for the green scarf._

 

* * *

 

Harry felt a surge of something different in his chest – familiar, but distant, like a friend that you hadn’t seen in years.

Anticipation, he realized. And something else, evoked when Harry read (and reread) the admission that the prince wanted to see him. It felt an awful lot like desire.

_Oh,_ Harry realized.

He smiled absurdly. It _was_ desire, and he hadn’t felt it in years.


	4. Burn and Break

Rita would have been more than happy to publish the article as it was. She had plenty of evidence, of course, just not the type that newspapers liked to print, apparently.

“Circumstantial,” the editor-in-chief of the _Prophet_ had told her. “We can’t print something this bold with just circumstantial evidence. Get a source.”

A source! Fifty years in journalism and all of a sudden she needed a _source_. When had the news industry started insisting on integrity? It certainly hadn’t been a primary feature back in her heyday. She was plenty sure that speculation that the Boy Who Lived batted for the other team would be enough to sell papers (especially with her very interesting theories about whether he “pitched” or “caught”, as the lingo went), but the editor had not been swayed. Him and his ethical standards. Rubbish.

It left her with the burden of proof. If any of Potter’s friends had been open to her questions, she would have finished her second biography of him by now ( _Harry Potter: the Man, the Myth, the Mystery_ ), and he certainly didn’t have publicist from whom she could get a statement.

If not Potter, then perhaps the mysterious, reclusive writer with whom he’d fallen into acquaintance. Unfortunately, the man was a hermit, and if she’d had any luck finding his personal information, she would have finished her biography on _him_ ( _The Cross that Cross Bears_ ).

There was the writer’s agent, of course – but a large part of an agent’s job was to understand and handle the press, and Rita doubted that she’d get much out of him, even via her more persuasive methods. She briefly considered breaking into the agent’s office and naming an “anonymous editorial intern” as her source, but alas, the building was warded against malicious intentions.

A lesser journalist would have quailed and collapsed under such steep odds, but Rita was nothing if not resourceful. And when the front door of the small London flat opened, she was wearing her pearls and winning smile.

“Hello, Mrs. Weston!” she said. “I understand that you’ve been looking for a nanny.”

 

* * *

 

A wolf whistle abruptly drew Harry’s attention away from the mirror.

“Blimey, Boss,” Felicia said, eyeing him up and down. “Looking good. Hot date tonight?”

Felicia was perhaps the only one of his underlings to make comments like that to Harry’s face. Her cockiness was simultaneously her most endearing feature and the one that had, on more than one occasion, nearly gotten them both killed in the line of duty.

He liked Felicia.

“Sort of,” he said, turning back to the mirror. He’d chosen a neutral, charcoal-colored jumper and slacks. Casual, inoffensive, ambiguously Muggle but not enough to draw attention. He tried to comb his hair, and when that hadn’t worked, tried to spell it. When that also hadn’t worked, he’d given up entirely. “Meeting for dinner.”

“Anyone I know?”

“Isn’t your shift over?” Harry asked in a smooth deflection.

“You’re one to talk. You weren’t even meant to come in today.”

“I’m older and I know what’s best,” Harry told her, straightening his collar.

“You’re so full of shit. You work too much, Boss.”

“I’m sorry, did you come here to lecture me on my work habits or did you have something productive to say?”

Felicia rolled her eyes and held up a parchment. “Word from Dimmock. They’ve found the nest outside York.”

Harry frowned. “Damn.” He’d been waiting for word from their scouts in York, itching to take them down since he first got wind of them. He headed over and grabbed the parchment, pulling it open. According to the report, it was larger than they’d been expecting.

“You’re not seriously thinking of taking care of this right now, are you?” Felicia asked. “Did you not hear my comment about how you work too much?”

“I heard it,” he answered vaguely, still perusing the report, “I just don’t listen to anything you say, as a general rule.”

“It’s six-thirty on a Saturday and you have a date. Get the hell out of here.”

“And I suppose that if we ask nicely, the human-sacrificing dark wizards will just stop being evil for a while the aurors go on a date.”

Felicia grabbed the report out of his hands.

“Hey!”

“I’m going to take this to Grimmond,” she said, “and he can handle it. You’re going to go on your date, be totally charming, and get lucky.”

“Merlin’s beard, Felicia—”

“I’m serious,” she said sternly. “This is my serious voice. Get out of this office, you workaholic.”

She turned on a heel and strode back out of his office. For a moment, Harry seriously considered going after her and making up some lie about how it wasn’t actually a date and he could cancel if he wanted to.

Then he looked towards his desk, and among the bric-a-brac and loose stacks of parchment, he saw the prince’s letter.

The desire rose in his stomach again, hot and familiar.

Grimmond could handle it.

 

* * *

 

When Dolly’s piteous wailing about Draco not being ready for a date became entirely too much for him to take, he left the flat and Apparated into the Leaky Cauldron before he lost his nerve.

At once, Draco felt overwhelmed.

There were people _everywhere_.

Obviously, he told himself, _obviously_ it was crowded. It was _the Leaky Cauldron_ , the most famous wizarding tavern in London and he was right in the middle of it without a disguise _what was he doing this was mad_.

No one had even glanced his way, he told himself, but the thought didn’t lessen the feeling that every pair of eyes in the place was eating away at his skin like fire. He had to sit down before the dizziness and terror turned into nausea.

The nearest unoccupied table was in the corner by a roaring hearth, and he sank into one of its chairs gratefully. He hunched forward with his arms on the table and fussed with the long green scarf pulled tight around his neck. The Leaky Cauldron was toasty warm and the scarf made his neck uncomfortably hot, but he dared not take it off, not if it in any way helped to obscure his identity.

“What can I get you, love?”

Draco jerked so violently that he nearly knocked his chair over.

“Easy, easy! Steady on, love! You all right?”

He started to look up at her, but thought better of it and kept his head down instead. His heart was slamming in his throat and he could barely speak.

“I’m waiting for someone,” he said, though it came out as a sort of wheeze. _Don’t look at her, she’ll recognize you, she’ll know._

“I can get you a butterbeer for starters, you look like you need one. Or maybe something stronger.”

“I’m fine,” he wheezed. “Thank you.”

A moment of silence passed. “All right,” she said, and he heard her footsteps echo away.

Draco was sure he was going to pass out. He leaned forward on his elbows and knotted his fingers in his hair, willing his breath to steady and his heart to slow.

This was stupid. He never should have done this. There was nothing in the universe that could possibly be worth this torment. The minute someone recognized him – and in Draco’s addled, terrified mind, it was not a matter of _if_ but _when_ – he would be lynched, he would be killed in the street like the filthy, hateful, Death Eater dog that he was, he had to get out, he had to—

There was a crack of Apparation and Draco looked up.

The first thing that entered his mind, before he even placed the name to the all-too-familiar face, was _oh, God, no._

Two options: it was a coincidence, or it wasn’t. Neither of them seemed within the realm of something vaguely resembling possible.

But there he was. Harry Potter, like a ghost of his past, fifteen years older and every line of it on his face, wearing a lovely gray jumper and scanning the room, looking for—

Draco ripped the scarf off his neck and stuffed it into his lap under the table.

This wasn’t happening. This wasn’t _possible_. Not Harry Potter of all people. God, anyone but Harry Potter, who knew all his shames, who had seen the worst of him, who never could and had no reason to see him as anything but a monster and an idiot.

The floor was bowing and warping underneath him. The room was spinning. _Out get out get out get out._

 

* * *

 

It should have been easy enough to pick out a green scarf in such a grubby old tavern with a palette that seemed to be made primarily of shades of gray and brown, but to his disappointment he couldn’t see any green at all.

Harry tried to quash the twinge of worry and approached the bar in the center of the room. He caught a waitress with a tap on her arm.

“Sorry,” he said. “I’m looking for someone – blonde fellow, green scarf, probably siting alone?”

The waitress’s eyes lit with recognition. “Oh, yes, he’s right—”

Her words fell short when she turned toward the corner and frowned. Harry followed her gaze toward an empty table by a fireplace.

“That’s odd,” she said. “He was right there a moment ago.”

The worry Harry had just suppressed reared up again. “Did he seem nervous?” he asked.

“Terrified, more like,” she said. “Nearly leapt out of his skin when I asked him if he wanted anything to drink. Were you the one he was waiting for?”

Harry pushed a hand over his hair. “Yeah,” he said. “Thank you.”

Harry would not let himself be hurt. He knew that this could have been a possibility from the start. He refused to blame the prince – it hadn’t been an act of spite, it had been his anxiety.

But there was no keeping away worry. Harry thought about his prince dissolving in on himself from fear and was suddenly overwhelmed with the desire to make sure that he was okay, that he’d made it home, that if nothing else he was safe.

 

* * *

 

The moment he was home he stumbled right into his office, locked the door, and cast the most powerful silencing charm he could manage. He didn’t want to look at anyone, to deal with anyone, not even Dolly, not even himself.

He felt like he was on fire, like every part of him was dissolving into dust. He was left to the whims of a cruel, unforgiving universe, torn apart, breaking down, suffocating, dying.

He started to scream.

He’d bought so easily into the illusion of happiness, into the idea that maybe, just this once, after so long, that he could find something _good_ to hold onto. That he could break the shackles of his past, that he could learn to love and live and breathe again.

And then it had been ripped away from him again, an action that had taken with it Draco’s bloody, beating heart.

He’d been so close. He’d been _so close_. So close to having everything, and now there was _nothing_.

He screamed and screamed until his voice broke, he burned until there was nothing left of him but ashes.

Silence came like a law of nature, and Draco was empty, blessedly numb. A million-million years passed before his eyes.

And then, an owl rapped on his office window.

 

* * *

 

_Are you all right?_

_Please answer, I need to know that you’re safe._

 

* * *

 

For the first time in fifteen years, Harry did not go to work.

He’d meant to go back to the office after, to check with Grimmond about the state of things in York, but when his owl had returned without a response from the prince, any thought of work left his mind like water through cupped hand. He was almost sick with worry, and he lost count of how many times he paced around his flat, trying to untangle his thoughts and figure out what to do next.

Harry felt like the worst person in the world. He never should have pushed him into meeting somewhere so public. It would have been so much better if they’d met somewhere quieter, somewhere that would have allowed him some degree of solitude. He could only imagine what being at a place as crowded as the Leaky Cauldron had done to him, this brilliant, delicate man to whom Harry had grown so desperately attached that it even surprised himself. He was nauseous at the idea that his actions had pushed him even further back into himself, ripping open old wounds and making everything worse.

Midnight came, then morning. Harry didn’t sleep. Every few minutes he would pace to the window and scan the sky for the sight of wings, never to any avail.

He could not put it off anymore, not in good conscience. He grabbed a parchment and quill and began to write.

 

* * *

 

_Dear Mr. Weston:_

_It is for the best if you do not ask why or how I know what I’m about to tell you. Please understand that I am not being alarmist, at least not deliberately._

_Your client, J. William Cross, may be dangerously unwell. I am very afraid that he might have had some kind of a breakdown and is not receiving the proper care. I don’t know who else to tell, and I worry that you may be the only one who can help him._

_Check up on him in person as soon as you can. I would advise against sending an owl, as I am almost sure that he will not answer and worry that it would be a dangerous waste of time._

_Please write back at your earliest convenience to keep me updated._

_Thank You,  
Harry Potter_

 

* * *

 

Eric knocked, and the silence that followed was just long enough to start him worrying.

The door finally opened and he saw Dolly, wide-eyed and twitching and staring up at him like he was the best thing to happen to her all day.

“Mr. Weston,” she squeaked.

“Is Draco in?” he asked at once.

“Yes,” she answered. “He locked himself in his office. Dolly’s heard nothing all night.”

“Shit.” Eric pushed in and made a beeline through the sitting room and for his office. He grabbed the handle and it refused to turn.

“Draco?”

Silence.

“ _Draco!_ Are you there? Can you hear me?”

More silence. He produced his wand from his sleeve and cast a quick _alohomora_ that didn’t help.

“Dolly, open the door,” he said.

“Dolly is under strict orders,” she squeaked, wringing her hands. “Master Draco has told Dolly in no uncertain terms that he is not to be bothered when he’s in his office.”

“He’s not in there working, Dolly!” he said. “This is an emergency! Open the door!”

The conflict on the house-elf’s face was blessedly brief. She snapped, and the door clicked open. Eric shoved his way inside.

Draco was sitting against the bookshelf, knees drawn up to his chest and hands knotted in his hair. His head was down, obscuring his face.

“Merlin,” Eric said. He hurried over and crouched down next to him. This had happened once before, years ago, when Draco was still his new client, and he’d received a frantic owl from Dolly saying that Draco had taken a kitchen knife to one arm.

It had been one of the more terrifying moments in Eric’s life, and if _Tragedy of the Narcissist_ hadn’t been so brilliant, it might have been enough to make him drop Draco as a client.

“Again,” Dolly wailed behind him, “it’s happening again!”

“Dolly, go make an emergency fire-call to St. Mungo’s,” he said.

“Master Draco!” she keened, gripping her ears tightly and tugging.

“ _Do it now,_ ” he snapped, and the volume was enough to send her scurrying into the sitting room. “Draco, Draco,” he said, turning back to him, “you’d been doing so well…”


	5. Scars

He tried to roll over, but found that he was bound by the wrists and ankles, which woke him up immediately and violently.

“Wh— _nn_ —!”

He pulled and thrashed, panic rising in his throat before he’d even really woken up fully. His heart was thundering, he just wanted to get up, why was he bound, he couldn’t—

_Breathe,_ Draco commanded himself. _Stop struggling. Breathe._

He stopped. He breathed.

_Look around. Where are you?_

The walls were white and nondescript. The bonds around his hands and feet were magical, not physical. He was on a bed.

_Hospital. All right. Think back – what happened?_

Draco strained his mind. He had the feeling that some time had passed, though he couldn’t say for sure how much. It wasn’t easy to focus when his heart was still pounding.

He remembered the letters. He’d been in correspondence with the raven he’d met at the masque. He’d gone somewhere, hadn’t he? Somewhere different, somewhere—

_Shit._

_All right. Don’t panic. Don’t panic, Draco. You’re useless when you panic. You need to be hospitalized when you panic._

Harry Potter.

_Breathe._

Of absolutely everyone in the universe, the raven was Harry Potter. The wonderful, genuine, handsome man to whom he’d grown so close was his childhood rival, a man who, perhaps more than anyone, had no compunction to forgive him, let alone return whatever affections Draco might have for him.

It was a bad situation. But it was not the end of his world, no matter how much it felt like it.

The door to his left opened and he rolled his head over sharply. One knobby hand and a bat-like ear poked out first, then a soft voice:

“Mater Draco?”

The tremor of fear settled.

“Dolly… what are you…?”

The house-elf slipped in and closed the door behind her.

“The light on the door said that Master Draco had woken,” she said. “Dolly was instructed by Master Draco’s mediwizard to go in when he was awake.”

“Can you get me out of these bonds?”

Dolly seemed conflicted. “Dolly’s not sure… Master Draco’s mediwizard said they were for Master Draco’s own protection.”

“I’m fine, Dolly, I promise,” he said. “I’m not a danger to myself. It was just a bad episode, that’s all. I just want to sit up.”

After a moment, Dolly meekly snapped her fingers, and the magical restraints evaporated. Gratefully, Draco sat upright and threw his legs over the side of the bed. He felt better already.

“Thank you,” he said, smiling.

“Is Master Draco feeling better?” she asked, shuffling over, pulling at her clean white pillowcase-dress.

It was a question that demanded a complicated answer. For a moment, Draco wasn’t sure what to say. “I feel – strangely hollow. Weak. And I would kill someone for a cup of tea.”

“Dolly was so scared,” she admitted, voice quavering, tears rimming her big, blue eyes. “Dolly hadn’t seen Master Draco in such a horrible state since—”

“Oh, Dolly, don’t cry,” Draco said. “I told you I’m fine—”

She darted forward and hugged him around his calf, sobbing violently into his knee.

Draco hated to see Dolly cry. It was why he’d agreed to let her stay in his service after his mother died. He scooped her up and hugged her tightly, letting her stand on the bed next to him as she wept loudly into his shoulder.

“I’m all right now,” he promised her. “I’ll be fine. I’ll be home before you know it.”

The words didn’t seem to reassure Dolly all that much. Draco knew from experience that he just had to let her cry herself out. It was fine, though. Her presence was enough to make him feel better.

 

* * *

 

_Dear Mr. Potter:_

_Let me begin by thanking you heartily for your warning. I had been operating under the assumption that my client’s general state was improving, and would have had no reason to check on him without your letter._

_You may rest assured that he is now safe, under careful observation at St. Mungo’s. The mediwizards have confirmed my suspicions: that his social anxieties coupled with some particular stressor had driven him into a nervous breakdown. He’s been declared stable, but they’ll be keeping him for a few days, I’m sure, to minimize the chance of relapse._

_I would advise against visiting him, as the nature of his illness does not respond well to dealing with too many people at once. However, if you are still in correspondence, I am sure that he would appreciate a letter._

_Thank you again for your letter, and best wishes._

_Sincerely,  
Eric Weston_

_Weston & Co._

 

* * *

 

Harry had been hoping that he’d been overreacting. That his paranoia had not only been correct but entirely necessary relieved him nearly as much as it made him feel like shit.

“His social anxieties coupled with some particular stressor,” Harry reread aloud, cringing.

_Fantastic job, Harry, you asked him on a date and gave him a nervous breakdown_. He’d been unlucky in love before, but this was surely a new low.

He wanted to make this better, but he doubted that there was any combination of words and actions in existence that could even come close.

Beyond anything else, Harry supposed, he owed an apology.

If only Harry could borrow his prince’s words to make it sound as meaningful as it felt. Harry was sure that nothing he could write could possibly be good enough.

 

* * *

 

If Draco was a lesser man, he’d be driven mad by the complete lack of stimuli. He understood that, as a psychiatric ward, the mediwizards had a duty to keep the room inoffensive and free of anything that might trigger an attack or facilitate self-injury, but the least they could do was leave a newspaper or something.

Luckily, Draco had been born into the wealthy elite, and he excelled at idleness. Dolly had to leave when visiting hours ended, leaving him to nothing but his thoughts for what must have been over an hour. He stretched out on the bed, put his hands under his head, and waited.

When the door opened again, he looked over. A mediwitch in a long white robe with her hair up in a ponytail was standing in the door.

“Mr. Malfoy?” she prompted.

Draco quashed the flutter of nervousness he always got when someone used his surname. _They’ll never let you out of here if they think you’re still fragile._

“Yes,” he said, sitting upright. “Doctor…?”

“Twine,” she answered. “Abigail Twine.” She had a stack of official-looking papers on a clipboard that she consulted for a few moments. “Oh, this is the wrong paperwork. Sorry, this is from your last doctor. I should grab a different set.”

“My last doctor? What happened to him?”

Dr. Twine hesitated a moment, looking at Draco uncertainly. “He switched off your service,” she answered delicately.

“Ah,” Draco said. Things like that happened quite a lot. “Because of my surname.”

Her eyes swiveled to his arm. Draco self-consciously pulled it up against his stomach.

“Yes,” she said. “Sorry.”

“It’s hardly your fault,” he returned, coolly as he could manage.

“Are those self-injury scars?”

This was the primary reason Draco hated hospitals. The isolation he could suffer, the tests, the poking, the prodding – all fine. It was their immediate visual dissections that he couldn’t stand. They made him feel naked, powerless.

“They’re old,” he said shortly.

“How old?”

“Ten years at least.”

Dr. Twine had forgotten about the paperwork. She crossed to his bedside and sat down next to him. “May I?”

Flinching, Draco extended his arm toward her, willing himself to remain calm.

It was such an ugly thing, the Dark Mark. During the War, it was tied directly to the will of the Dark Lord, staying fresh and dark and terrible, writhing on his skin. When he’d died, it had started to fade, but Draco knew that he’d be wearing it the rest of his life, the indelible reminder of the worst mistake he’d ever made.

In the midst of the darkest hours of his depression and self-imposed isolation, he’d taken a knife to the blasted thing, trying to slice it off his arm. He’d only succeeded in scarring it and making it uglier.

“You must have a lot of remorse,” Dr. Twine said.

“What gave it away?” Draco snapped.

“There’s no need to be combative.”

“I’m not being combative, I’m being defensive. And rightly so.” He yanked his arm away and folded it against his chest. “I take no joy in staring at it.”

Dr. Twine was silent a moment. “Sorry,” she said.

Draco shook his head rather than respond.

“The protocol in these situations is to ensure that the patient is psychologically and physically stable before releasing them,” she told him. “Mediwizardry isn’t exactly pioneering the field of psychiatry like the Muggles are, but we do have a checklist.”

“I remember,” Draco said.

“You’ve been hospitalized before?”

“There’s one that asks me to rate my desire to kill myself on a one-to-ten scale.”

“When was your last hospitalization?”

“You’ve seen my arm, Doctor. When do you imagine it was?”

There was another lapse of uncomfortable silence.

“I think it was for the better that Dr. Thomasson switched off your service,” she said. “In addition to my training as a mediwitch, I received a degree in psychology from Cambridge. It’s a Muggle school.”

“I’m well aware what Cambridge is.”

“Have a session with me,” Dr. Twine said, gently, urgently. “We’ll talk about what happened and how you got here. If you seem stable, I’ll write up your discharge papers.”

Draco turned and gave her a proper once-over. She was pretty, plump, with freckles and long ginger hair.

“What exactly does a session with you include?”

“We just talk,” she said. “Usually for about an hour.”

“That sounds deceptively easy.”

Dr. Twine grinned at him. “Therapy isn’t easy,” she admitted. “But it is good for you.”

Draco shook his head. He couldn’t imagine how just talking would be good for him, but he had no desire to stay in this hospital any longer than he had to, and if this was the fastest way out, so be it.

“How old were you when you took the Mark?” she asked.

Draco gave a sharp jerk backwards.

“That—” he stammered, “—that’s rather _forward_ of you, Dr. Twine.”

“That’s therapy, Mr. Malfoy,” she returned promptly. “I said it wasn’t easy.”

Draco gripped his forearm tightly. He should have known.

“I – I was fifteen.”

“That’s very young,” she said.

“I was barely out of infancy.”

“I’m guessing both your parents…?”

“The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree,” he hissed.

“Tell me about the day you got it.”

Draco could not imagine anything he wanted to talk about less. “What about it?”

“Were you scared? Were you eager? What was going through your head?”

It seemed like a lifetime ago, so distant that it no longer felt like a memory. But the evidence that it had happened had never gone away.

“I was terrified,” he said. “Father had just – my father had recently been sent to Azkaban, and it was just me and Mother. The meeting had been planned a week in advance, and Mother wouldn’t tell me the subject of the discussion. She looked so sad.”

“Do you think she knew what was going to happen?”

“I’m sure she did. Maybe the Dark Lord had forbade her from telling me, maybe she just didn’t have the stomach. When the meeting finally came and he asked me to step forward and receive the Mark, I was caught completely unawares. I knew that it wouldn’t be good, but I had no idea… I thought they’d wait until I came of age, but…”

When Draco didn’t continue, Dr. Twine prompted with, “Did it hurt?”

“It felt like I was dying, like my blood was on fire.”

Dr. Twine nodded slowly. “Let’s move on to the night you self-injured.”

“I feel like you’re using the wrong term.”

“What?”

“It wasn’t some grand emotional gesture of sadness or remorse or anger. I just wanted the damned thing off my arm.”

After a moment, Dr. Twine said, “That sounds to me like you were sad and remorseful and angry.”

Draco bent forward, knotting his hands in his hair. He felt like he was breaking apart. He wasn’t sure whether he should be horrified or impressed that she’d gotten so quickly into his head.

“And what about yesterday?” she asked. “What happened then?”

He took a few centering breaths.

“I thought I was ready for something, but I wasn’t.”

“What weren’t you ready for?”

“I met – I met someone.”

“It says on your chart that you have severe social anxiety and depression – you’re telling me that you went out of your way to meet someone new?”

“I tried,” Draco said miserably. “I wanted it so badly. But when I got there, there were so many people, and I felt so vulnerable, like at any moment one of them would recognize me, and the room was spinning and I couldn’t breathe and—”

And then it had been Harry Potter. Draco decided to leave that part out.

“That’s incredible,” she said, and Draco looked up at her, wondering if she was mocking him. By the look on her face, though, she wasn’t – she seemed astonished. “People with anxieties like yours don’t usually just volunteer to bring someone new into their lives. Whoever this person was, they must have been extraordinary.”

Something twisted in Draco’s chest.

“He was,” he said. “He was extraordinary. Genuine and warm and wonderful, and everything about him just – he just made me feel safe.”

“Mr. Malfoy, you can’t let this setback stop you,” she said. “That’s incredible progress. How long have you locked yourself away?”

“Fifteen years.”

“Fifteen years!” Dr. Twine looked as if she could scarcely believe it. “Fifteen years of self-imposed isolation, and this person is able to bring you out – and make you feel safe? You’ve got to hang onto that, Mr. Malfoy; this could be how you really begin to heal.”

Draco spent a while staring at her, silent and wondering. She seemed so optimistic, so certain. He had to admit that he couldn’t find any fault with her logic, but then perhaps if she knew the whole story…

He couldn’t count on Harry Potter to be the catalyst of his recovery. After everything, after the War, after their shared past, he had no right to ask anything of him. And Draco knew, he _knew_ , that the moment the mask of the prince came off, he’d lose his raven forever.


	6. No Way Out

“You’ve got a little something, Boss,” Felicia said. “On your forehead.”

“Don’t worry, it’s not _my_ blood,” Harry assured her, and he stepped forward toward the witch lying supine on the floor of the dungeon.

She’d caught one of Harry’s hexes to the side of her neck, and Harry could tell by how quickly it was fountaining blood that it had hit an artery. She had maybe twenty-five seconds left, and she was spending them twitching and sputtering.

Harry put his boot neatly over her throat, and he could see the panic rising in her eyes again.

“Give me a name, Carlisle.”

She bared her teeth at him, and Harry had to give her credit for steadfastness. He increased the pressure on her throat and she choked on bloody bubbles.

“Just because you’re dying doesn’t mean I’m out of bargaining chips,” Harry said. “I can make these last few seconds awful for you. A name, Carlisle. Who’s the mastermind?”

It took her only a few more seconds for her to break under the pressure of his boot. “Tol— Tolkachyov—!”

Dmitri Tolkachyov – that tied up a lot of loose ends. Harry turned to Felicia and reached into the pocket of his robe, looking for something to wipe the blood from his face.

“Let’s get back and send word to the Russian ambassador,” he said, fishing out a handkerchief and rubbing at the splatter of arterial blood. “I’m sure she’ll want to know that Tolkachyov is back in her borders.”

“How long has it been since you’ve slept?”

Harry glared at her and called an all clear. Aurors came flooding in, wands out, and tore apart the scene, looking for any dangerous magical artifacts.

“I’m serious,” she said. “Have you seen yourself lately? You look like death warmed over.”

“I’m fine.”

“Oh, bollocks.”

She followed him, to Harry’s aggravation, back out from the dungeon while the other aurors worked.

“I was all optimistic yesterday, you know,” she said. “You didn’t show up for work and I thought to myself, ‘Damn, his date must have gone _really_ well!’”

“Felicia—!“

“But then you come back looking like hot rubbish and crushing dark wizard necks under the heel of your boot – what in Merlin’s name _happened?_ ”

“I know you like to pretend that the rules don’t apply to you, but you _are_ a junior auror asking very personal questions of your direct superior.”

“Either fire me or answer the question.”

As he walked, Harry tried to decide if he could actually get away with firing her.

“Did something happen? How bad can a date possibly go?”

Harry heaved a great sigh. It was clear that she had no intention of dropping it. At the very least, Felicia already knew about Harry’s sexuality and wouldn’t require an uncomfortable discussion.

In the damp, dark, quiet hallway leading into the dungeon, Harry stopped walking. He waited a moment, listening, trying to judge if they were far enough away to be out of earshot from the other aurors.

“Nervous breakdown bad,” he told her, quietly, and Felicia’s eyes widened.

“Shit, Boss, what did you _do_ to him?”

Harry bristled. “I didn’t – fuck you, I didn’t _do_ anything to him! He was gone before I even arrived. He has a disorder – social anxiety. He just couldn’t take being in public.” He stuffed his hands in the pockets of his robe. “I should have known better than to invite him someplace crowded.”

“And you’re going to punish yourself for it by working until you lose consciousness?”

“I’m not punishing myself,” he said, and he kept walking.

She followed, of course. “Oh, my mistake. You must be working your thirty-second straight hour because you’re Harry Potter and you’re too good for sleep.”

“I shouldn’t have said anything.”

“You’ve at least owled him, right?”

Harry flinched.

“Oh, come on!”

They made it outside the anti-Apparation zone surrounding the run-down old castle and, within a few seconds of each other, cracked away and back into the main lobby of the Ministry of Magic.

“I just didn’t know what to say! He had to go to the hospital, Felicia, how do you even start to apologize for causing something like that?”

“Well, ‘sorry’ is usually a good place to start.”

“I think it’s clear that he’s better off without me,” Harry said.

“Yeah, well, I think that decision should be his, not yours,” she countered as they started toward the lift. “And I don’t think it should it should preclude a simple goddamn owl with an apology.”

“I refuse to take romantic advice from you,” he said, but before he could enter the lift, Felicia grabbed his wrist urgently.

“Harry,” she said, “I know I take the piss out of you a lot, but I don’t just do it for a laugh. You haven’t been home in thirty-two hours. You’re running on empty and you’re _falling apart_. You have been for _years_.”

Harry stared down at Felicia in silence, not quite sure what to say.

“Did you even see your face on Saturday? Because I did,” she said. “For the first time since I’d met you, you had the look of a man who had something to look forward to. Whoever this guy is, he must be incredible.”

“He is,” Harry said before he could stop himself. “He’s brilliant and fascinating and…”

Felicia grinned at him, then socked him lightly in the shoulder.

“He’s worth it. And you’re worth it, too. Now go home and send him a goddamn owl.”

Harry sighed and pushed a hand through his hair as Felicia went into the lift.

“And get some sleep, too, you stupid wanker!” she called as the doors slid shut.

 

* * *

 

_In my head I’ve written this letter a thousand times, and it’s never come out right, so you’ll have to bear with me, as I’m sure it won’t come out right this time either. What I wouldn’t give for your way with words._

_First I suppose I should say that I’m sorry. I should have known better than to ask you to meet me somewhere so public. You can’t possibly understand how rotten I feel about doing this to you. I hope you understand that it wasn’t intentional._

_Second, are you all right? Are you recovering? I’ve spent the past thirty-two hours working, operating on nothing but coffee and adrenaline, because it was the only way out of my own head, out of thinking constantly about you, and it didn’t work. I suppose that makes me sound batty._

_I understand that you might not be in the right space to answer, or that even if you are, you may not want to, after everything. I can’t ask you to respond in good conscience, but I really hope you do. A good friend recently pointed out to me that just the thought of you had made me better, somehow, brighter, and I think she’s right._

_It’s so strange to think that we’ve never even met, but I still feel so close to you. I feel like I know you, the deepest parts of you, and I’m blown away by it all. The only thing I can do is pray that I haven’t mucked it all up too badly._

 

* * *

 

By the time Draco finished reading the letter for the third time, his eyes were burning with tears. He wondered why. Were they bitter tears? Joyful? Melancholic? Something in between all three?

“Is Master Draco ready to leave?” Dolly asked, and Draco rubbed his knuckles into his eyes before he looked up at her. She had his overnight bag with all his things packed. Dr. Twine had declared him stable and the discharge papers had been signed. A moment ago he’d never been more ready to go home, but now he found himself dreading it, because it meant that he’d have to respond.

And there was only one thing he could say in response to a letter like this.

“I’m ready,” he said, forcing a smile.

 

* * *

 

_You are a far better man that I could possibly deserve, gentle raven, and one that I know, now beyond any shadow of a doubt, I can never have._

_There is one very large piece of this story to which you have not yet been made aware, one fact that, when you learn it, will shatter this beautiful image you hold of me. Not that long ago I thought it might not be insurmountable, until I saw you there across the way in the Leaky Cauldron and my heart dropped from my chest._

_Dear raven, sweet raven, already I am crushed under the weight of the disappointment you’ll feel. My breath catches and my hands shake as I write these words. Would that I could hide again, hide from you, from myself, from my past, from everything, but that would not be fair to you._

_After everything, my raven, my love, you deserve the truth, no matter how it may wound me. In the words of Robert Frost, there is no way out but through._

_There is a quiet little corner of Diagon Alley that is largely unknown. It contains a number of flats and small shops and is reliably empty most days. It is called Crescent Gate, and I will be there on Wednesday at seven in my green scarf._

_Until then, my raven._

 

* * *

 

Harry read the letter a second time and did his best not to be alarmed. He’d never heard the prince so cryptic before. The letter raised more questions than it answered. He’d seen Harry in the Leaky Cauldron? What was this piece to which Harry was ignorant? How could it possibly disappoint him as terribly as the prince said?

At the very least, he wouldn’t have long to wait. Tomorrow was Wednesday, and he’d have his answers.

He wondered for a moment if Wednesday would indeed be the end of it all. Harry had a difficult time imagining that anything the prince could say or do would affect him so deeply as to drive him away forever, but then Harry’s imagination had never been his best feature.

At that moment in time, more than anything, Harry did not want it to end. At that moment, he did not care what terrible secret was set to be revealed, because it could never change the parts of the prince that Harry had first been drawn to, the parts that he’d fallen—

“Merlin,” Harry said, scraping his hands across his face. Was that what this was? Was he falling in love with the prince, the damaged man whose face he’d never seen? It seemed impossible, irrational. Surely such things never happened outside of stories.

This had gotten out of control, far beyond anything Harry could hope to understand. Somehow he knew that the only way for it to be all right again was to see the prince, face-to-face, and confront it once and for all.

 

* * *

 

If Rita had so chosen, she could have easily gone into acting. People were simple, and in her deft hands she could mold them like clay, get them to do anything she wanted.

It certainly helped that Eleanor Weston was quick to trust. She’d only been employed as her daughter’s nanny for a few days, and already she fancied Rita a good friend of the family. On the first day, Rita had broken into her husband’s office in search of anything that might validate her story, but found nothing. On the second day, she’d warmed herself up to Eleanor. And on the third day—

“Oh, Ellie, I meant to ask,” Rita said as she carried the baby, Maria, into the kitchen on her hip, “I was looking for something to read to Maria the other day and I saw that you have all of J. William Cross’s books.”

“Oh, yes,” Ellie said, taking Maria when Rita offered her, so Rita could charm the dishes to wash themselves. “Eric is his agent.”

Rita feigned a look of astonishment. “Oh, Merlin! Is he, really?”

“His pride and joy,” Ellie laughed. “Though not as much as little Maria, no ma’am!” She tickled the baby’s stomach, eliciting an uproarious laugh.

“I’m a huge fan of his,” Rita said. “I heard a rumor that he’s been working on something new, is it true?”

“Yes, I think so,” Ellie said. “Though there was a bit of a snag. Poor man was in St. Mungo’s for a while.”

There was no need to feign astonishment this time. “He was?”

“Oh, the whole thing is so dreadful. He only recently got out. He’s a very delicate man, you know, very reclusive, doesn’t like to mix with people. Eric says that Harry Potter had asked him to give him a letter, and they started a correspondence.”

“Harry Potter!”

“I know! Apparently he was so affected by _Tragedy of the Narcissist_ that he just had to send him a letter, and when they agreed to meet, poor Mr. Cross had a dreadful attack from being out in public.”

This story just kept getting better and better. Rita was almost dizzy with all the possibilities.

“An attack, my goodness,” Rita said. “I can’t even imagine. I knew he was private, but that rather sounds like he has some kind of a disorder.”

Ellie nodded and tutted and patted Maria’s back. “He does. Social anxiety, I think Eric called it, and depression. The brilliant ones are often the most damaged, you know.”

“My goodness, my goodness.” She leaned on the counter and tried to put this together. The St. Mungo’s story was good, but it couldn’t possibly take precedence over forcing the Boy Who Lived out of the broom closet, especially not when she didn’t have enough information. Maybe she could get into the records office at St. Mungo’s and find out more about the attack afterwards.

And as long as she was here, Rita decided, she may as well try to push her incredibly good luck:

“I don’t suppose,” she said, smiling slyly and looking sideways at Ellie, “that a big fan could get an early look at his next book?”

Ellie laughed. “Rita, you devil,” she said, “if I didn’t know better, I’d say you agreed to nanny under false pretense!”

Rita laughed right along with her. “Oh, Ellie,” she said, “can you _imagine!_ ”


	7. Edge of Ruin, Depth of Darkness

_THE BOY WHO LIVED TO LOVE A MAN_  
Harry Potter Locked in Sordid, Secret Love Affair with Author J. William Cross  
By Rita Skeeter

_It was under the glittering fairy lights, between the notes of a decadent waltz, that it first began: a perfect catalyst for romance, but a shock for those it would catalyze, and for the world._

_Harry Potter, now 32, the champion of the Light and defeater of the Dark Lord, has never been the sort to attend something like a masque ball at a governor’s mansion. Sources confirmed that he attended at the behest of his friend, Hermione Granger-Weasley, as her plus-one, doubtlessly an effort to encourage the Boy Who Lived to relax. In the years since the War, it’s been well-established that Potter has a workaholic streak, one that rose him quickly through the ranks as an auror, though at the cost of everything else in his life._

_J. William Cross, the illustrious and award-winning author of_ Tragedy of the Narcissist _and_ Twice Since Midnight _, among many other titles, has never been the type to attend anything. In past press announcements, the author’s agent, Eric Weston of Weston & Co., has described him as “shy” and “withdrawn”, but any reporter who’s tried to arrange an interview with him knows it goes far beyond that. Cross is best described as a shut-in, a hermit with a pathological fear of social interaction of any stripe._

_An improbable pair in an improbable setting, and now, sources close to Mr. Weston have confirmed, in an improbable romantic correspondence._

_Potter was seen earlier this month chasing Cross as the author fled the governor’s ball, doubtlessly caught in a paroxysm of his social phobia. The veteran, dressed handsomely as a raven with a mask of black feathers, stared after him listlessly, like a man possessed with lust and longing._

_It was only within a few days that the correspondence began. Using Cross’s agent as a midpoint, Potter sent Cross a letter, apparently after reading_ Tragedy of the Narcissist _and being further enchanted by the mysterious recluse of an author. It was out of that first letter that the gay love affair grew._

_Potter’s homosexuality would surely explain why he, the beloved savior of the wizarding world, remains a bachelor at 32, though he was unavailable to publicly comment on the accusation._

 

* * *

 

When Draco was a boy, his parents would take him shopping in Diagon Alley. He would wait until they were busy or distracted to run off into Crescent Gate and press his nose against the glass of the bakery window.

But that was over twenty years ago, and the bakery had since been replaced with a shoe shop. When he first saw it, Draco felt a strange twinge of regret. The bakery had some of the most incredible croissants that Draco had ever tasted, and he found himself wondering whether he would have been able to do something to keep the bakery from closing if he hadn’t been locked away in his flat.

He’d arrived early and sat down on the bench on the side of the road. A dusting of snow had started falling, covering the cobblestone with a glittering sheen of white. Every now and then, a parent and child or a couple would pass by, but for the most part, Crescent Gate was empty. It was quiet and still, the tall rows of buildings insulating it from the wind that moaned overhead.

He would have expected to feel nervous, but he didn’t. He knew what was coming, after all – he’d known since the Leaky Cauldron. There was nothing coming that Draco hadn’t already braced himself for.

He drew up the hood of his cloak, fussed with his green scarf, and tried to take comfort in the fact that, if nothing else, it would be over tonight.

 

* * *

 

Harry saw him at once and thought for a moment that his heart had stopped beating.

The green scarf. The prince.

The hood of his black cloak was drawn up, and he was sitting on a bench some yards away from the mouth of the alley that let into Crescent Gate, set against a backdrop of glimmering snowfall.

His heart went from not beating at all to beating far too fast.

Harry approached, his boots crunching on the thin layer of snow. He could detect the subtle tensing of the prince’s shoulders, the stooping of his head, the balling of his gloved hands into fists.

Harry stopped in front of him, and for a moment neither of them said anything.

“You’re nervous,” Harry said, more of an observation than a question.

“My apologies,” the prince whispered. “I’ve braced myself, but old habits die hard.”

“You don’t have anything to fear from me,” Harry assured him, and to his astonishment, the prince laughed a dry, bitter, sob-like laugh.

“Dear raven,” he said, voice thick with emotion, “you are, as you have ever been, more certain than you are knowledgable.”

The sound of the prince’s voice on the brink of tears was almost too much for Harry to take. He reached out to touch his face, but the prince jerked back, stood, and turned away.

“Before I – before… I just want you to know that this wasn’t deliberate.”

“What wasn’t?”

“I want you to know that I don’t expect anything from you.”

“What are you talking about?”

The prince took a breath. He straightened, set his shoulders.

He turned, and Harry was staring into the face of Draco Malfoy.

Wasn’t he? This wasn’t some strange dream, was it? For a moment, it felt like it might be.

It was without a doubt Draco Malfoy. Fifteen years older, and the only sign of it in his eyes. He seemed sad, broken – and perhaps more than anything else, so very weary, like he was carrying a tremendous burden, like at any moment he was expecting a killing blow and he no longer had the strength to be scared of death.

“You…” Harry began, but the sentence was lost halfway up his throat.

“J. William Cross is my pen-name,” he answered, his voice wan and shaking. “I never could have used my given name, not after the War.”

Harry’s mouth was open. He wanted to speak, but he didn’t know what to say.

Draco Malfoy? The irascible, cowardly, sarcastic, deplorable little Death Eater? He hadn’t been falling in love with Draco Malfoy all this time, had he? Those beautiful, captivating words couldn’t have been Draco Malfoy’s. Could they?

But the more he thought about it—

“God, that makes a lot of sense,” Harry said.

Draco sob-laughed again and lowered his head. Cornsilk hair fell in front of his eyes.

“So when you saw me at the Leaky Cauldron—?”

“Overwhelmed by fear and old memories,” he finished, with great difficulty. “I fled the tavern like a bat out of Hell. I might have managed meeting a stranger, but not you. Never you. I still can’t quite believe I can bear to look you in the eye, after…”

Harry nodded dumbly. He felt like the rug had been ripped out from under him.

“Merlin, I – I thought I could do this, but – I’m sorry, this is worse than I thought it would be.” His voice was tight, frantic; his eyes averted. “Thank you for your decency, Harry.”

And then he pushed past him. It took Harry a few moments to realize that he’d even left, and moments longer to turn and call—

“Wait…!”

He took off across the snow, following him around the corner that opened into Diagon Alley.

“Wait, I was just—”

Harry stopped quite abruptly when he saw what was waiting for them.

Malfoy had stopped dead in his tracks. Rushing towards them, flashpots bursting, was a swarm of reporters.

Malfoy stumbled backwards, nearly losing his footing. Harry was used to swarms of reporters, but they usually didn’t appear without some kind of reason.

“Oh—” Malfoy stammered, “—oh, Merlin.”

He looked at Malfoy. All blood had rushed from his face, and he was gripping his chest like he was frightened he might drop dead of a heart attack.

“ _Mr. Potter! Mr. Potter!_ ”

“I…”

Malfoy seemed paralyzed, so scared that he couldn’t even move, and before Harry could urge him to run, before he even remembered his condition and what a swarm of paparazzi would do to him, the journalists were already shouting questions.

“Mr. Potter, how do you respond to accusations that you’re involved in a gay love affair?”

“Mr. Potter, who’s that with you?”

“That’s Draco Malfoy!”

Malfoy was shaking violently, and even through all the pandemonium, Harry could hear him wheezing.

Harry’s mind finally kicked into gear. “Stop,” he said. “Stop! Leave him alone!”

“Mr. Malfoy, were you meeting Mr. Potter just now?”

“Are _you_ J. William Cross?”

“Mr. Potter, are you involved romantically with Mr. Malfoy?”

“Does his status as a former Death Eater and marked blood purist at all bother you, Mr. Potter?”

“ _Leave him alone!_ ” Harry cried.

Wheezing and shaking and barely standing upright, Malfoy pushed his way through the crowd, desperate and terrified like a cornered animal. Harry tried to follow him, but the cloud of reporters had grown too thick.

“Mr. Malfoy, are you at all worried that your former allegiances will in any way stain Mr. Potter’s good name?”

“Malfoy!” Harry called, but the moment he was out of the crowd he Disapparated with a crack.

 

* * *

 

He couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. Everything was falling apart. He was dying.

He heard Dolly’s voice, but she sounded very far away.

He had to – he was going to – everyone _knew_ —

Draco fell to his feet in front of the fireplace. He could barely grab his wand, let alone cast the spell for a fire-call.

“Abigail,” he stammered. “Abigail Twine. Abigail Twine!”

He was not so much breathing as choking, not so much speaking as sobbing. He was dizzy, nauseous, dying, falling apart, burning up, he couldn’t take this, everyone _knew_ , everyone knew who he _was_ , they knew about everything, his entire word was crumbling around him and he was _dying_ —

“This is Dr. Twine,” came a voice through the flames.

“Doctor—” he gasped, though he could barely get the word out. “Doctor, I – I… I can’t…”

As Draco tried desperately to just get the damn sentence out, just tell her, just stay _conscious_ , stay _alive_ , he heard her voice come again:

“Mr. Malfoy?”

“ _Yes,_ ” he half-wheezed, half-sobbed, gripping the sides of the hearth to keep himself from falling forward. “Yes, I – Doctor, I can’t – my chest – I feel like I’m dying – I can’t—!”

“Mr. Malfoy,” she said, sternly and slowly, “stop talking. Stop _now_. Stop and breathe deeply.”

His head fell forward. He dragged in scrap after scrap of air, though his throat felt so tight that it didn’t help at all; he still felt like he was going to collapse.

“I’m not in the room with you, Mr. Malfoy, but at an educated guess, I’d say that you’re having a panic attack,” Dr. Twine said. “They’re _not_ life-threatening. Do you understand? They’re awful, but you _aren’t_ in danger of dying. Keep breathing.”

Keep breathing. Keep breathing.

“I’m going to do an exercise with you,” she said. “It’s used to help reduce anxiety levels in a crisis. Whenever I say ‘number’, I want you to give me a number, from one to ten, describing your level of anxiety. One is not anxious, ten is the most anxious you’ve ever been. Do you understand?”

Keep breathing. Keep breathing.

“Mr. Malfoy, do you understand?”

“Y-yes.”

“Okay. Number.”

“Ten.”

There was no sense in lying. Draco had never been this terrified. He felt like everything in his world was breaking down and there was nothing he could do. And even though Dr. Twine had assured him he wasn’t going to die, it certainly didn’t feel like it.

“All right,” Dr. Twine said. “Question. Are you in any _immediate physical danger?_ That is to say, are you at any immediate risk of being killed or hurt?”

Draco swallowed. “No.” He wasn’t in danger. No one could physically hurt him here. His flat was warded.

“Number.”

“Nine.”

“The trigger that brought on this attack, is it something that’s going to affect you immediately, or in the future?”

Nothing was affecting him immediately. He was home. He was physically safe. There might be something in the papers tomorrow, but that was tomorrow.

“F-future,” he stammered.

“So you have some time to deal with it. Is that correct?”

“Yes.”

“Number.”

“Seven.”

“Keep breathing, Mr. Malfoy. Nice and deep.”

Keep breathing. Keep breathing.

“Think carefully about the stressor that triggered this attack,” she said. “What is the worst possible outcome? How likely is it? Is it completely insurmountable, or is there a way to cope?”

People were doubtlessly already connecting him to his pen-name, and Draco was sure that eventually he would be exposed. It was bad – but insurmountable? He had an agent, didn’t he, and weren’t things like this part of his job? Even in the worst of all outcomes, he could move, pick a new pen-name, start over.

“Number,” Dr. Twine said when he didn’t answer.

“Five.”

“Are you feeling better?”

Well, this throat wasn’t tight anymore, and his heart rate had slowed to reasonable levels. He still felt weak and jittery, but not like he was actively dying.

“Yes. Th-thank you, Doctor.”

“I want you to come into my office first thing in the morning,” she said. “I’m going to open up a slot for you. I’d like to start seeing you regularly.”

Draco leaned his forehead against the side of the hearth, the cool brick soothing his feverish skin.

“How’s nine?”

“Fine.”

“Tomorrow at nine. I’ll see you then, Mr. Malfoy.”

The flames returned to normal and the flat went quiet. Draco closed his eyes, left with only his thoughts.

Bad. Not insurmountable, not world-rending, just bad.

Even with his thick cloak and scarf, Draco felt cold. He folded his arms and doubled over in front of the fireplace.

Just bad, he thought. Just vulnerable, just exposed, just weakened.

Just alone. No more raven on his shoulder.

He squeezed his eyes shut. The image of Harry’s face swam into his mind, shocked and appalled at the sight of Draco.

He’d known it had been coming, but he hadn’t expected it to hurt like it did.

“Master Draco?”

He didn’t rise; he didn’t have the strength.

“Yes, Dolly?”

“Is – is Master Draco all right?”

He wasn’t dying. He wasn’t in danger. His obstacles were not insurmountable.

And he wasn’t all right. The panic was gone, but the sadness remained, the loss. The hollow void of a could-have-been was carved from his chest, raw and bleeding. His raven was gone.

Harry was gone.

There was no wracking, terrified sobbing, no pained wheezing – just steady, silent tears. He cried not because he was scared, but because he simply could not stop.

Harry was gone, and the only good thing he’d had in fifteen years had gone with him.


	8. The Unbearable Burden of Caring

Harry threw the copy of the _Prophet_ into the fire and pushed his hands through his hair.

“Rita Skeeter,” he said. “I thought she was done tormenting me in fourth year.”

Hermione neatly stirred sugar to her tea, watching him silently from across the sitting room.

“You know, I don’t even mind that she pulled me out of the closet,” Harry said. “Not ideal, but I’m used to it and I can manage. I just can’t believe she’d bring Malfoy into it, knowing his condition. It’s – it’s irresponsible – it’s _vile_. God, what if he’s had another attack?”

“So you’re all right with it,” Hermione said. “You don’t mind that J. William Cross is Draco Malfoy.”

“No! I mean – yes. I mean, I don’t know! Give us a minute to digest it!”

Harry sank into the chair opposite her and rubbed the bridge of his nose. Hermione took a slow sip of tea and watched him in silence.

“I mean, I can’t,” Harry said after a moment. “Right? The man’s an ex-Death Eater. He made my life miserable in Hogwarts. He’s a blood purist in the extreme – he fought for the Dark Lord!”

“You aren’t usually the sort to hold people to past sins,” Hermione observed.

“For all I know, the sins aren’t that far past,” Harry said.

Hermione frowned. “Harry,” she said, “you don’t think he regrets what he did? You read _Tragedy of the Narcissist_. You don’t see the parallels?”

Harry opened his mouth to ask what she meant, but all at once it hit him like a blow to the chest.

Caroline, born into a family of necromancers. Caroline, reared in a world so far-removed from anything wholesome or decent that she didn’t even recognize goodness when she first encountered it in Vienna. Caroline, whose twisted, deeply-entrenched beliefs were ripped out at the root and shattered her spirit. Caroline, who was so wrought with guilt and self-hatred that she couldn’t even run from the aurors when they came for her.

Harry felt like he was going to cry.

All the letters they’d exchanged – he’d called Caroline guilty of inaction. Even though she’d been raised in an environment that would have never let her be anything else, he still held her – _himself_ – accountable for not doing anything when he could have. After all these years, Draco Malfoy still hated himself.

He covered his mouth with one hand and screwed his eyes shut.

“I mean, don’t get me wrong,” Hermione said, “I’ll be the first to admit that he was awful back at Hogwarts. But clearly he’s realized that he was wrong, and hasn’t even managed to forgive himself for it.”

Harry was so heartsick that his chest physically hurt. He heard Hermione slip off her armchair and sit next to him on the couch, and soon her hand was on his shoulder.

“Whatever you’re going to do,” she said, “you should do it soon. The media doesn’t move slowly with these kinds of things. It will get out of control very quickly.”

Harry forced open his eyes, took in a shuddering breath, wrung his hands together.

He couldn’t abandon Draco, not now, not like he’d abandoned himself.

 

* * *

 

When Eric had first barged in rather abruptly to Draco’s flat, he had been relieved to see that he was up, sitting, and even drinking tea.

“You’re all right!” he’d said, but Draco hadn’t responded.

That was when he’d started to get a nagging sense of worry.

“Look, I’ve managed to pull some strings,” Eric said. “I can get them to delay the article exposing you, but I had to bargain for it. You’ve got to do a press conference.”

Draco took another long sip of tea.

“I know you hate doing public appearances, but there’s no other way. The media is going mad; they need confirmation, and it has to come from you.”

Still, nothing.

“Draco, are you all right?”

“A press conference,” Draco said. His voice sounded hoarse from disuse. “That sounds awful.”

Eric flinched. “I know. But you can keep it brief. Tell them that you’re J. William Cross, answer a few questions, then get out.”

He crossed the room, sat down across from Draco. He looked bad, Eric noticed, but not in his usual way. He didn’t look jittery or nervous – he looked sad.

“I don’t suppose there would be much use in telling you that I’d make a fool of myself,” Draco said.

“You can do it,” he said. “It won’t be a very big conference. Just a few reporters from the major papers and periodicals. There won’t even be that many questions.”

Draco finished off his tea and set the mug on the table, then drew his legs up to his chest.

“I’ve started seeing a psychiatrist,” he said, and Eric blinked in surprise.

“You have?”

“She said to me this morning that people with anxieties often exaggerate their own worries, that things that would otherwise by harmless and small become enormous and world-ending. So tell me, Eric, as an agent – is this a harmless and small public relations snafu?”

Eric frowned. “I… at the risk of making things worse, it’s not harmless or small,” he said. “Especially not with the, ah, love affair attached to it.”

He gave Draco a look. He wanted to ask if the story about the love affair was true, but perhaps it should wait.

When Draco remained quiet, he continued: “Journalists are vicious, and they can ruin careers. With things as they are, with the stigma that’s still on homosexuality, with your… family, and status during the War, you can safely assume that this is a big problem.”

“Oh, good,” Draco said drily, “so I can panic in earnest and not be concerned with overreacting?”

“But just because it’s big doesn’t mean it’s overwhelming,” Eric assured him. “It doesn’t mean that you have to stop writing, or that anything big has to change. This is my job, Draco – I can get you through this.”

Draco stared at him in silence for a moment.

“I… you know I hate to pry on your personal life, Draco, but this has become everyone’s concern and I—”

“It’s over.”

“—what?”

“We were in correspondence. It was romantic – or nearly so – for a time, but it’s over now.”

Eric didn’t quite know what to say. He settled on, “I’m sorry.”

Draco shook his head. “He’s Harry Potter. It never would have worked.” There was a sad, jagged edge to his voice.

A moment of silence passed between them. Dolly arrived with a tea tray, and Eric took a cup gratefully.

“Let’s start prepping for the conference,” he said. “You can practice answering questions.”

 

* * *

 

Harry used one of his many accrued vacation days and skipped out of work.

He Apparated back into London, outside the squarish building with the brass “WESTON & CO.” sign. This time, it was open and Harry walked right in.

There was a smattering of what Harry could only guess were editorial interns around the main room, all of them poring over large stacks of parchment. At the largest desk nearest the entrance, a young woman looked up at him.

“Hi,” Harry said before she had the chance to recognize him, “I’m looking for Eric Weston. Is he in?”

“Oh, sorry,” she said, “he just left. He had to help a client prepare for a press conference.”

_Press conference?_ “Oh. The one for J. William Cross?”

She nodded. “Yes, sir.”

What on earth was he doing at a press conference? There was no way he was ready for that kind of thing.

“Right. Sorry, I’m meant to go there,” Harry said. “Where is it, exactly?”

 

* * *

 

They’d rented out a small lecture hall for the hour. They’d spent the day preparing, drilling Draco with difficult questions and working out deft answers. Eric had advised him which were the best reporters to take questions from, and which would be merciless.

But as he stood at the podium at the front of the empty room and stared out the glass doors, where a cloud of reporters had already gathered, he realized, with steadily creeping dread, that he still felt very much not ready.

He wasn’t ready to talk about his work, his family, or his relationship to Harry Potter. He wasn’t ready to face down reporters and their intrusive questions. As the panic rose in his throat, he decided that he wasn’t even really ready to be outside his flat.

“What are you going to tell them?”

He had to grab the podium with one hand to keep himself from losing his balance when he spun around.

“Wh – what—?”

Harry Potter was approaching, having arrived from the side door that Draco had used. He was looking, Draco noticed, at the glass doors where the reporters were waiting just beyond. Was this a hallucination? Should he be considering schizophrenia to his diagnostic list along with social anxiety and depression?

“The journalists,” he said, coming to a stop next to him in front of the podium. “What are you going to tell them?”

Draco could detect the faint scent of holly and was overpowered. Not a hallucination.

He couldn’t find his voice.

Harry’s entirely-too-green eyes refocused on Draco. “You’re still nervous,” he said, and he sounded almost disappointed.

“I didn’t expect…” Draco began, but he lost the sentence in the fog of his mind.

“I said it before,” Harry told him. “You have nothing to fear from me.”

“Why are you here?” Draco managed.

“I wanted to see you,” he answered as though it were obvious.

The answer didn’t make sense in Draco’s mind. It was as though Draco had asked him for the time and Harry had responded with a recipe for smoked salmon.

“I… I don’t…”

“Are you really ready for this?” he asked. “Facing all those people, answering their questions?”

“There isn’t… I don’t have much choice.”

“Of course you do. Just tell them to fuck off and go home. You don’t owe them anything.”

“That’s… delightfully naïve,” he said. “ _Why_ – really, why are you _here?_ ”

The repetition of the question seemed to perplex him.

“Are you expecting some convoluted plot?” he asked. “Is it really so hard to believe that I just wanted to see you?”

“Yes,” Draco said before he could stop himself.

A shadow of sadness passed over Harry’s face

“Why wouldn’t I want to see you?”

“After everything—”

“ _Especially_ after everything.”

Draco abruptly forgot what he meant to say.

“Did you really think that learning who you are would be enough to drive me away? After I’d seen the best and worst of you, seen your soul in the pages of your book, and loved every part of it?”

He went back to considering the fact that maybe this was a hallucination – a very wonderful, very elaborate hallucination.

Harry touched his cheek and quite abruptly Draco’s heart stated beating in his throat. Still not a hallucination.

“Harry…”

“I’m as captivated by you now as I was on the night we met,” Harry said, and he was speaking very quietly, and so close that the heat of his breath ghosted across Draco’s lips. “Maybe even more.”

“I’m not—” Draco stammered, though talking at all was getting harder, “—I’m not – I can’t possibly – I’m…”

“You’re what?” Harry asked. “A Death Eater? Is that it?”

Draco shut his eyes tightly. Just hearing the word was like knives twisting in his stomach.

Harry’s free hand moved down, gripped Draco’s forearm, and a shudder shook his body.

“Wh-what are you—?”

But Harry wasn’t listening. He lifted Draco’s arm and pushed down the sleeve of his robe. Draco’s eyes burned with shameful tears as he was forced to stare at the ugly, twisted mark.

“Stop,” he whispered, “stop, I can’t—”

“Old,” Harry said as he studied the mangled thing. “Old, faded, scarred. Just one part of you, a part that doesn’t define you, not anymore. It’s _over,_ Draco. The War is _over_.”

A strangled sob ripped out of his throat. Draco couldn’t see, he was having trouble standing.

“It’s just one part of you, and it’s helped make you into the man I’ve been falling in love with.”

Harry raised Draco’s arm to his mouth and warmly, firmly kissed his wrist, at the tip of the mess of scar tissue. Hot tears were blurring Draco’s vision and streaming down his face – he’d never – no one had ever—

Harry gripped his forearm with one hand and with the other snaked a hand through his hair. Draco leaned into the touch, eyes half-shut, emotion strangling his voice.

“They’re watching,” Harry said, though he didn’t lift his lips from the skin of Draco’s arm.

It took Draco a moment to remember what he was talking about. He looked toward the doors and saw the reporters, cameras pressed to the glass, flashpots bursting, screaming questions that were too distant, too muffled for him to understand.

With an incredible, concentrated effort of will, Draco managed, “Y-you… you shouldn’t…”

“Shouldn’t what?” Harry whispered onto his skin, making Draco shudder. “Shouldn’t give them a story? Why not? I have nothing to be ashamed of, and neither do you.”

Draco gave up trying to speak. His mind was still boiling, his throat still tight, tears still pouring down his face—

Harry leaned in and kissed him, and for the first time in fifteen years, Draco’s mind quieted.

All he could smell was holly, all he could feel was Harry’s mouth, Harry’s hands, Harry’s heat, Harry’s arms snaking around him and pulling him close. Somewhere in the periphery he could hear reporters and cameras and questions and none of it mattered because he was gripping Harry’s robes and kissing him and there was absolutely nothing else in the universe that mattered.

Draco wasn’t sure how much time passed – years, perhaps – but when he pulled away, his mind was still, his heart rate even. Harry pressed his forehead into Draco’s and stroked a thumb along the curve of his jaw.

“There,” Harry whispered. “No more press conference necessary.”


	9. Words in Amber

When Harry first stepped into the flat, he couldn’t quite suppress a grin.

“Sorry,” Draco said, “it’s a bit of a mess.”

“It’s exactly like I pictured it would be.”

And it was. Harry moved into the sitting room – books by the pile, on every spare inch of available space. Huge, glossy photography books with names like _Light and Shadow_ ; old, thick, dusty tomes like _A Survey of Wizarding Literature_ ; heaps of dog-eared paperbacks with titles like _Death at Pleasantbrook_ and _Thin Paper Houses_. The decor was refined yet homey with lots of dark oak and glass; the hearth was burning at a pleasant roar, and the whole flat smelled like tea and cigarettes.

“Normally Dolly would be out offering something to drink,” Draco said, “but she doesn’t do so well around new people. She’s probably hiding under her bed… what’s with the look?”

Harry laughed and shook his head. “Nothing. I like it. It’s very you.”

“I’d have a hard time making it anything else,” Draco said, and Harry crossed the room, tangled his fingers in Draco’s hair, and kissed him, long and lingering. He could feel Draco smile against his mouth. When they broke apart, he muttered, “What was that for?”

“Nothing, really,” Harry admitted. “I just like that I can kiss you whenever I want now.”

Draco laughed and it was such a wonderful sound that Harry tried to swallow it with another kiss, arms snaking around his waist. He was in love with the feeling of Draco’s body pressed into his, drunk off the scent of him.

“If this is ephemera,” Draco whispered onto Harry’s mouth, “then it will have been worth every loss and terror that made it possible.”

“Ephemera? It’s not ephemera.” Harry pulled at Draco’s lower lip lightly with his teeth, which drew a delicious shudder from him. “It’s a beginning. I’m here forever, for as long as you’ll have me.”

Draco groaned. It was a small noise, a plaintive one, and Harry had never heard anything so gorgeous in his life.

“That I could preserve your words in amber,” Draco said breathlessly, his fingertips tracing patterns on Harry’s chest, “wear them around my neck – oh, Merlin—!”

Harry had ducked his head to bite lightly on one of the long lines of Draco’s throat, and the arcing and twisting of his body in response sent electricity down Harry’s spine.

“I knew I liked listening to you talk,” Harry muttered, “but I don’t think I quite realized how much. God, keep going.”

Draco whined desperately. “I feel like I’m coming alive again,” he said, his voice taut and trembling. “Like every kiss warms my blood, like every touch jolts my heart and sets it beating. It’s been so long – so long…”

Harry moaned and pushed his hips forward. His arousal was straining painfully against the front of his trousers. Harry couldn’t remember a time since before the War that he was this turned-on, this white-hot and electric with want.

“My body’s _aching_ for you,” Draco gasped, his head falling back. He was grinding his hips back against Harry’s, just as desperate. “I’ve never needed anything so badly – I feel like I’ll come undone without the heat of your mouth, the touch of your hands – Merlin, without your cock—”

Harry felt a tremor that started in his hindbrain and went straight down to his pelvis. Before he had fully processed the sentence, he was grabbing Draco by both arms and pushing him into the nearby wall, working his jumper over his head.

He kissed hot, breathy trails onto the pale skin of Draco’s now exposed chest and savored every jerk and moan it elicited. Draco’s hands were tangling in his hair, his heart thumping under Harry’s lips.

“Bedroom?” Harry asked into the skin of his shoulder.

“Second door,” Draco stammered, and it took all of Harry’s willpower not to physically pick him up and carry him inside.

They landed on a soft, neatly-made, four poster bed and Harry went right back to kissing down his stomach. He was so desperate that his fingers could barely move. Draco lifted his hips in an effort to help Harry in peeling away his trousers.

Harry stared down at Draco, now laid bare. He studied the long expanse of pale flesh, all along the thin limbs and tousled blond hair and felt absolutely ravenous.

“Jesus,” Harry said. “A mind like yours should not be allowed to be in this sort of package.”

“There’s no need to flatter me,” Draco told him, grinning. “You’ve already won me over.”

Harry laughed. Draco sat up and slipped his fingers under the hem of Harry’s shirt, pulling it over his head. Once it had been discarded, Draco made a sound like a purr that Harry decided he wanted to hear every day for the rest of his life. He spread his hands across Harry’s chest and looked up at him with sin in his smile.

“There’s far too much I want to do to you,” Harry muttered, snaking a hand through his hair, “and not nearly enough time to do it.”

“Let me help you overcome your indecision,” he whispered in reply, pushing down Harry’s trousers – or at least, enough to free his flushed, hardened cock. Harry hissed low in relief – and then again, more loudly, when he felt Draco’s hot, wet, open mouth on the side of the shaft.

“ _Christ—!_ ” Harry had to grab the foot of the bed to keep himself from falling over. His hips jerked reactively against Draco’s lips, and he obligingly took the glans into his mouth, all lips and tongue and— “Oh, God, _yes_ , Draco—!”

He wished for a moment that he had Draco’s uncanny ability to speak in poetry, to tell him how incredible his mouth felt on Harry’s cock, to beg him to do more and deeper and faster, but Harry’s mind could only focus on the sensation; everything else was background noise. Draco was by then moving in earnest, one hand braced on his stomach and the other wrapped securely around the base.

He was bobbing, humming, making delicious, obscene little noises with each movement. Every now and then his eyes would lift and lock on Harry’s, and Harry would shiver and tangle his hand in the sweat-streaked, silver blond hair.

It was all mounting far too quickly, and Harry only just had the presence of mind to use the hand knotted in Draco’s hair to give him a sharp pull back.

Draco stared up at him, his lower lip shiny with precome and his face flushed.

“Something wrong?” he asked.

“Just the opposite,” Harry panted. He did his best to catch up with his breath smiled apologetically down at Draco, who seemed, to Harry’s eye, quite pleased with himself.

He sat up and promptly fell backward onto the bedspread, limbs splayed, neck and chest streaked with sweat, looking like something from a painting. After everything, the sight of it alone was nearly enough to do Harry in.

“God,” Harry said, falling forward and pulling his fingertips down Draco’s thighs. “I have to have you – every damn part of you.”

“I’m already yours,” Draco returned, his voice so low and sensual that Harry shivered.

He leaned down and they fell into an open-mouthed kiss. Harry’s hand moved down Draco’s chest, his stomach, his hip – stopped for a moment to appreciatively stroke the shaft of Draco’s swollen cock, which drew a high-pitched whimper – and then down further, experimentally pressing against the tight ring of muscle.

Draco shivered violently. His back arced and his head turned away.

“Y-you should be careful,” Draco warned breathlessly. “I’m very – it’s a very, ah, sensitive are for me.”

Harry raised both eyebrows.

“Is it? How sensitive?”

Draco’s face went scarlet and took on a look of defiance.

“Very,” he answered shortly.

Harry’s mind filled with a million delightful possibilities, and a smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. He held out one hand and his wand, on the floor against the wall, flew into his palm.

“ _Very_ sensitive,” Harry repeated, casting a quick lubrication spell. Draco whimpered at the sensation and his legs spread open further, one of them curling over Harry’s back. “What, is that all you have to say about it? Is that _very_ sensitive as in you’ll turn into a writhing, moaning mess if I find the right spot, or _very_ sensitive as in you can come without ever touching your cock?”

The moan that shook Draco’s body was answer enough, but Harry had no intention of not making completely sure. He pushed one finger past the ring of muscle, and to his absolute delight, Draco did not so much groan as _scream_ in pleasure, all the lines of his body tense and writhing.

“God, you should see yourself right now,” Harry muttered, pushing his finger in more deeply into Draco and slowly, gently, thoroughly fucking him with it. “You are something out of a wet dream.”

Draco was half-screaming, half-sobbing, bucking his hips against Harry’s hand wantonly. Deftly, Harry slid in a second finger to join the first. The spell had made him slick, but he was still gripping him tightly and hot as hell.

“ _Please,_ ” Draco managed, voice strangled.

The word went straight to Harry’s cock. “Please what?”

“I can’t _take_ it,” he moaned, his hands fisting in the bedspread.

Harry added a third finger and Draco screamed. “Tell me exactly what you want,” Harry said, even though he knew damn well what Draco wanted and he wanted it as well, so badly that he was surprising himself with his self-control.

Chest heaving, eyes screwed shut, toes curling, Draco gathered what was left of his eloquence and said, “I want you to fuck me. I want the imprint of your cock pressed indelibly into me. I w-want – oh, Merlin – I want to feel – f-feel the heat of your climax inside me, I w-want – I want to forget the meaning of words and my own name and absolutely everything until there’s only you, only this—!”

Harry had no idea how Draco could wax poetry like that while Harry was three fingers deep inside of him and it didn’t matter. It was the most impossibly erotic sequence of words he’d ever heard in his life.

He pulled his hand free, pushed one of Draco’s thighs aside and—

“Aaahhnnn _hhhaaaaarryyyyyy—!!_ ”

He had to hold onto Draco; there was a very good chance that without that anchor, Harry might drift off into the ether.

The sensation was _incredible_ – being hilted inside Draco was like sinking into a bath. Harry felt the heat of him seep right down into his bones, and he held Draco tightly with both arms around his back, kissing frantically, wantonly across the skin of his neck. Draco was clawing at his back, fingernails digging across the skin, and when Harry started to thrust, everything around them amplified and warped.

There was no more talking – words stopped having meaning. There was Draco scream-sobbing in delirious pleasure, Harry groaning into the silvery hair, the feeling of Draco’s body gripping Harry so tightly that it felt like he was trying to pull his soul out through his cock, and nothing else. The universe stopped at their skin.

Harry could feel the heat mounting in his stomach, the frantic bucking of Draco’s hips, the twitching of his cock against Harry’s stomach. Fireworks were building behind his eyes, set to explode. He pulled Draco’s head back with both hands and kissed him ferociously – the sweat, the heat, the delirium, the salt on his lips, faster, deeper – Draco spasmed and writhed under him and Harry could feel his release against his skin – the rise, the fog of near climax—

He stilled – jerked. Hands knotted in Draco’s cornsilk hair, he emptied inside him, pulse after pulse of blinding orgasm so powerful that he couldn’t even see through the fireworks. Draco was gasping, moaning, shaking and saying words that felt like Harry’s name – _Harry, Harry, Harry…_

 

* * *

 

There was sunlight on Draco’s face, and from somewhere not too far, the smell of a strong brew of breakfast tea.

He pulled open his eyes. He was in bed, naked and – what was this heavy sort of feeling? Sort of between weak and giddy and sleepy and sore?

_Oh,_ he remembered, biting down on the smile suddenly tugging at his mouth. _Well-shagged._ Not something he’d felt in years.

The bed was empty, but the bedroom door was ajar. Draco stood up with some difficulty, pulled on his dressing gown, kicked on his slippers, and headed out.

As he approached the kitchen, muffled voices got clearer:

“… a raspberry bush just down the street, wild raspberries, Dolly goes there when they’re in season and picks them.”

“It’s incredible, I didn’t even know jam could taste this good…”

Draco came around the corner. Dolly was on her stool in front of the stove, fussing over what looked like eggs benedict, and Harry was sitting at the kitchen table with a mug of tea and toast with what Draco guessed was raspberry jam.

Harry looked up when he saw him – there was a moment of surprise, but it quickly melted into a smile.

“Draco,” he said, rising out of his chair. “Sorry, I didn’t want to wake you.”

Draco laughed. “You _didn’t_ wake me,” he said.

Harry crossed the kitchen and kissed him. It was a quiet, serene, lovely feeling that made Draco’s insides twist. The same feeling when Harry’d kissed him the first time. He wondered if it would ever go away, and found himself sincerely hoping it wouldn’t.

“Did you know that your house-elf is a genius?” Harry asked.

“Mr. Potter is exaggerating!” Dolly squeaked.

“She made her own jam!” said Harry. He reached over for the slice of toast and offered it to Draco. Laughing, Draco took an obliging bite. The jam was delicious and rich and sweet.

“It’s really not very hard,” Dolly said, filling a second mug with tea for Draco. “It’s Dolly’s hobby.”

“Be modest as you like, Dolly, this is the best jam I’ve had in my life. You could start your own business and put the Malfoy fortune to shame.”

Draco laughed and watched them argue about just how talented Dolly was at making jam and exactly how much money she could make if she wanted to start selling it. He was smiling so wide his face hurt. He was half-expecting to wake up at any moment – when had his life become this simple and beautiful and lovely?

Eventually, Dolly lifted a mug of tea up towards him and nudged it into his hand. He smiled down at her and took a sip.

“Did Master Draco sleep well?” she asked him, having now decided that ignoring Harry’s praise was the best way to avoid embarrassment.

“I slept wonderfully, Dolly,” Draco said, looking for a moment at Harry and catching his eyes.

“A good day always starts with a good sleep,” Dolly replied, shuffling back toward the stove.

“A good day,” Draco repeated. “Yes, I think it is going to be a very good day.”

**Author's Note:**

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